


Bleed Into Me

by Weesageechak



Series: Bleed Into Me [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Asshole Theo, Darkfic, Deal with a Devil, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eternal Sterek, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Horror, Human Lucifer, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Manipulative Theo, Possessive Lucifer, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Scott McCall is a Good Alpha, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Torture, Tortured Stiles Stilinski, all the trigger warnings imaginable, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 194,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4963018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weesageechak/pseuds/Weesageechak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[edit, Nov 22, 2016] - here's another warning because some readers still catch it too late or do not take the tags seriously enough: this story slowly turns into a darkfic & contains extremely distressing scenes (drawn out, explicit descriptions of rape & torture & psychological torture) - please, for your own sake, do NOT read if stuff like that keeps you awake at night!<br/>----<br/>Stiles knows that the past can stay the past, just never look back. Never question the hows and whens, lean back and enjoy your teenage life. Fix your Jeep, meet your friends, pursue your crush.</p><p>And when you wake up in the middle of the night, never go down to the kitchen.</p><p>Some lines should never be crossed, yes, some things never be said.</p><p>It doesn't matter.<br/>The story has already begun.</p><p> <br/>WARNING: contains scenes that might be troubling to some readers (explicit rape and torture); please do NOT read if you feel uncomfortable with this.</p><p>[This story is an alternate version of Stiles Stilinski as Lucifer's toy, protective Derek and a whole bunch of monsters, inspired by (and with permission from) kingramses3.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dear Stiles.

 

You’re probably busy doing homework, fixing your crappy Jeep, being a teenager and minding your own business, so I can imagine you don’t want to read this. Everything has been quiet what with Derek and Chris gone and Malia in your life – honestly, I can’t blame your wanting to feel secure once in a while.

  
Only that’s not gonna last. You know it.

  
So far you’ve lived through it all and – believe me, I’m proud of you. You’ve grown, Stiles, and you’ve become the person I expected you to become.

  
That little boy, screaming for his Mommy, shaking like a leaf, scared shitless by the monsters under your bed – he’s gone.

  
It’s your story now, Stiles. Only, you don’t know it.

  
Yet.

  
But you’re ready now, yes, it’s time. You don’t even have to do anything for the moment.

  
Just look at me, will you?

  
Look.

  
At me.

 

 

Yours eternally.

  
L.

 

 

 

 

***

 

Picture a boy who’s running for his life.

  
The street in front of his parents’ house is empty, everyone’s asleep, the verandas quiet except for the door he threw open that is still swinging ten feet behind him.

 

  
Twenty.

 

 

Fifty.

 

  
The soles of his sneakers connect with asphalt again and again and again as he hurries past mailboxes and neat front lawns, but no matter how hard he’s pushing himself to go faster, he can’t seem to be getting away from it. In fact, it’s catching up.

  
It must be because he can hear it breathe. He never heard that sound before, wheezing and disgusting and otherworldly.

  
It’s flitting from shadow to shadow, spreading a darkness denser than the night.

  
His lungs feel like they’re on fire but his short feet just keep going, his mind looping a single thought.

  
_Please, God, no, please, no, God, please_ …

  
His whole body is screaming but his little mouth is screwed open without making a sound, as if he’s drowning, like he’s a slasher victim on mute. As if this thing, whatever it is, is sucking all the noise out of him.

  
When he hits the end of the road and continues in the direction of the forest the creature lets out a shriek.

  
It’s still in flight, massive and deadly and fifty feet behind him.

 

  
Twenty.

 

  
Ten.

 

 

 

***

 

“Sí, sí, sí… ¡Ya está bien!”

  
Dereks sweeped the bills into his pocket, a wide grin in his face. This was getting better and better.

  
“Derek, what the hell are you doing?”

  
Chris had just entered the scene, his eyes darting around the room.

  
Screw his hunter’s instinct.

  
“Derek, we’re not taking commissions”, Chris said in a low voice but Derek quickly gave him a pat on the shoulder to shut him up – unnecessarily so because the shady group of locals wouldn’t have understood a word he was saying anyway. They just stood there, glaring at this uneven couple.

  
“It’s alright. Come on, we gotta get going.”

  
He grabbed his partner’s upper arm and quickly pulled him out of the room into the blazing desert sun, musing over the irony of the situation.

  
A werewolf pulling a hunter out of the danger zone, wasn’t that hilarious. Well, or pathetic.

  
_Partner… yeah, I guess we really teamed up, haven’t we..._

  
They had lost track of Kate near Heroica Caborca which is about 160 miles off the Mexican border if you go down federal highway 2. They’d been combing ancient ruins in a hundred mile radius for her ever since but the local mission church, La Purísima Concepción de Caborca, had turned out to be much more fruitful. There was something seriously wrong with that place and, as Derek had just found out this morning, the hunters in this area were even paying people with a death wish to track whatever had torn apart these five nuns. The scratch marks on the mutilated body parts certainly looked like they had been caused by claws smaller and sharper than those of a wolf.

  
“Three more bodies…,” Chris mumbled while scanning the print-out Derek had handed him. It was the English version of an article from a local online daily newspaper.

  
“Yeah, fifty miles North-West from here,” Derek said. He had heard the story directly from Eléna Vasquéz, head of the local hunter clan.

  
“Another mission church?”

  
Derek shook his head.

  
“The desert. Literally, in the middle of it. Arms and legs were strewn around a Saguaro.”

  
Chris handed Derek the paper who put it back into his pocket.

  
“Maybe there’s something like a den nearby. In all cases, she can’t stay in the broad sunlight so she must have found shelter somewhere. We have to check it out.”

  
Derek nodded.

  
“That’s what I was thinking. Let’s pick up Braeden und get going.”

 

***

 

Stiles let himself fall back onto the bed, arms folded behind his head. He had been staring at the ceiling for five minutes when Scott said, “So that’s… 47?”

  
No response.

  
“Stiles?”

  
Scott turned around in his computer chair.

  
“Stiles, I’m trying to do math here…”

  
“You and me both, brother,” Stiles mumbled, followed by a few less audible words that sounded like ‘house,’ ‘crossing’ and ‘no way’.

  
Scott sighed and put his pen on top of the pile of unfinished homework on his desk.

  
“You still thinking about that family?”

  
Stiles shot up from the bed and started pacing the room.

  
“What if the dirt mentioned in the article was mountain ash? They might have tried to protect themselves. Maybe they were hunters –”

  
“Stiles! Relax. That wasn’t even in Beacon Hills County. It was just.. an ordinary crime, man. Ok? Relax.”

  
“Re-”, Stiles started, pivoting on his heel to face his best friend. “Relax? _Relax_?! Scott! Get real, everything has been quiet for far too long, you said it yourself! I mean, what dismembers a whole family and then props up their heads in a circle? Mh?”

  
“A serial killer?”

  
Stiles was shaking his head vividly. He started pacing again.

  
“You’re not connecting the dots, Scott. It happened in Greenbay County, alright. The month before? Redding. That thing in June, a group of kids massacred in a barn? Klamath Falls.”

  
Scott frowned and shrugged.

  
“So?”

  
“So?! Scott! It’s getting closer!”

 

 

 

That night, Stiles’ dreams were haunted by monsters lurking in the shadows, drawing their circle closer and closer. He woke up kicking and screaming.

  
“What the…”

  
It took a full ten seconds for him to realize that he was safe at home in his room.

  
Or, well – can you ever be safe in Beacon Hills?

  
Stiles got out of bed. His heart was racing and his t-shirt was soaked in sweat. His dad was working the night shift so there was nobody home but him.

  
This feeling again. How did the doctor call it? Impending doom. A symptom of his generalized anxiety disorder.

  
“It’s in my head”, he was mumbling to himself while he slowly climbed down the stairs. “Everything’s alright, it’s just my survival instinct set off by nothing whatsoever…”

  
The cruel feeling of being hyper-alert 24/7, of sensing a presence that was closing in on him and then of the ground shaking when a panic attack was coming on – it had all returned when the supernatural returned to Beacon Hills and he deeply loathed this by-product. Well that and the real deadly danger they were basically constantly in.

  
“Okay, everything alright here… moving on to the kitchen like a man,” Stiles said out loud.

  
“Everything’s good here, everything’s-”

  
He froze.

  
The lights in the kitchen were on.

  
He was absolutely a hundred percent certain he had turned off all the lights before going to bed.

  
He was shaking already. Awesome. Too much adrenaline is just… awesome.

  
But all was good in the kitchen. Everything looked normal. Except for that guy sitting at the kitchen table, solving his Dad’s crossword.

  
“Stiles.”

  
He looked up.

  
And Stiles’ mind went blank.

 

***

 

“You fell over a _chair_ and twisted your _ankle_?”

  
Lydia was staring at him, a small heart-shaped mirror in her left hand, an open lipstick in her right and that how-dumb-can-you-be-look on her face.

  
“Yeah…” Stiles cleared his throat.

  
“How is that even possible? Breaking your _arm_ , alright, but-”

  
“Lydia, don’t – overthink, ok? It just happened. I slipped.”

  
“You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”, Scott said.

  
Stiles shook his head.

  
“No, it’s alright, man, really… I’ll just be limping for a few weeks…”

  
“Ok, boys, I have a lunch date. Gotta run,” Lydia said and threw her make-up back into her purse.

  
“I’m leaving, too… homework,” Malia said slowly, frowning like she wasn’t sure if there was anything worse than brooding over math problems on a sunny Friday afternoon.

  
They said goodbye.

  
The two girls had just turned the corner when Stiles hissed, “Scott, there was a guy in our kitchen.”

  
“What?”

  
“He – he just sat there and looked at me and said ‘Stiles’ with this odd voice and then he was gone.”

  
Scott blinked twice.

  
“Er… that’s why you twisted your ankle?”

  
“Yeah that’s why I twisted my ankle,” Stiles said impatiently, “but I don’t even remember falling.”

  
“What do you remember?”

  
“Just what I told you, I see this guy, he gets up, looks at me, goes ‘Stiles!’ and then he’s gone and I wake up and my ankle hurts like crazy.”

  
“Well, what did he look like?”

  
Stiles shook his head in frustration.

  
“I don’t know! It’s like – in my memory, he has no face at all even though I was sure, absolutely sure that I was seeing him and-”

  
“Buddy,” Scott interrupted him, smiling, “You were just dreaming.”

  
“But what about my ankle? What about – what about Void Stiles?”

  
There. He said it.

  
And, avoiding Scott’s eyes, hoarsely, “It’s just… what if I’m doing it again?”

  
“What?”, Scott said, blinking, and then, “The murders? Come on, man, you just had an extremely vivid dream. And,” speaking up because Stiles looked like he was about to protest, “even _if_ – and that’s a big if – this guy in your kitchen was real and some kind of a monster, it is highly unlikely that he – or you – were committing those murders. You said it yourself, nothing like that happened tonight in Beacon Hills or any of the neighboring counties. Plus, you have an alibi for each and every one of these murders, so… just don’t worry, ok? Get your thoughts off horrible crimes and monsters for a few days.”

  
Stiles was slowly nodding, less than convinced.

  
“Come on, practice starts in ten minutes…”

  
“Yeah, I don’t think so, buddy…,” Stiles muttered, limping after his best friend, his swollen ankle stinging with pain.

 

***

 

“So, Lydia… you’re er… into fashion?”

  
Lydia took a sip from her Cappucino.

  
You’re freaking hot but, _boy_ , can you be any _dumber_?

  
“Yes, I guess you could say that.”

  
“Ok yeah, I thought ‘cause…. yeah that dress looks really good on you.” He was the captain of the neighboring town’s Lacrosse team and he was blushing. Uncool.

  
Lydia put down her cup with a _clink_.

  
“Ah you,” she said with her sweetest smile, “you’re sweet when you’re nervous, Andy, why don’t we talk about you last game – where was that?”

  
“Sacramento,” Andy said, breathing a little lighter now.

  
“Ah.” She took another sip.

  
“Yeah, did a dive for the goal three minutes before the end and made the winning shot,” he added beaming like a first grader who spelt his name correctly. Lydia was liking this date less and less.

  
“That’s awesome, Andy. So-”

  
She stopped, cup hovering in mid-air.

  
Andy frowned. It took him a few seconds but then he realized something was not right.

  
“Lydia? You…. you having a stroke?”

  
“No,” Lydia breathed, eyes wide open, gazing at something beyond the crowd in the café.

  
“Oh no no no no…”

 

***

 

“Oh man…,” Chris said. His eyes scanned the mess in front of him. It was hard to tell how many people exactly had been slaughtered and strewn across the field. Looked like a whole football match – or the jigsaw puzzle of one.

  
“I don’t think we’ll find a survivor,” Derek said stiffly. “And this wasn’t just Kate. It must have been a whole pack – or flock – or… herd?”

  
“Are you sure Kate’s been here?”

  
Derek bent down over one of the unrecognizable heaps of flesh and started sniffing. He grimaced and looked up to Chris. “Just like before, unmistakably her scent. It’s faint but I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  
“I got some news,” Braeden said when she joined them. She flipped her cellphone shut and put it into her leather jacket.

  
“There’s another incident, about 80 miles from here. Different location, same result.”

  
Chris nodded and opened the map on which he’d been marking the locations of the gruesome murders to track Kate’s movement.

  
“Campo…. California,” Braden said and Chris circled the name of the town with a red marker.

  
“It’s definite,” he said grimly. He put a red line through the new circle connecting it to the rest. Braeden stepped closer to look at the map. A five-year-old could have worked out the pattern – the circles generated a straight line.

  
“That means…,” Braeden said, hesitating. “They’re headed-” started Chris but he was interrupted by a low, threatening growl that had him instinctively reach for his gun.

  
He and Braeden both turned around to face Derek.

  
“We have to get back to Beacon Hills,” Derek snarled, his eyes glowing ice blue. “And fast.”

 

***

 

Stiles was in bed, wide awake.

  
There it goes again, he was thinking. Hating his life just a little bit.

  
He lay there waiting for that feeling to wash over him.

  
“Just go to sleep,” he mumbled to himself, pressing his eyes shut.

  
That was ridiculous. As if anyone in that state of agitation could actually sleep. It was physically impossible.

  
“Just calm down…”

  
He tried hard not to concentrate on anything in particular – but what the freakin’ hell was up with that dude’s face? It’s like – he knew it was somewhere in his memory but for some reason he couldn’t remember.

Maybe he had dreamt it after all, he wasn’t sure anymore… this wouldn’t have been the first time his memory was fucked up and, quite frankly, it scared him shitless.

  
There was something about that guy – like a –

  
He couldn’t put his finger to it.

  
Stiles punched the mattress and let out a frustrated snort.

  
What the hell did all of this mean?

 

 

 

After what felt like hours of tossing around and wracking his brain for the elusive image, Stiles felt his limbs getting heavier. Maybe that was it, sleep, finally, finally...

  
And yet that fear of someone – some _thing_ – being down in the kitchen right now.

  
While he was still considering going downstairs and trying hard to come up with arguments why he absolutely shouldn’t do that, his eyes fell shut.

  
He just had to… throw a glance … bestiary…

 

 

 

But maybe it was alright. It was alright and that’s how it was supposed to be.

 

 

 

Maybe this is how it begins.

 

 

 

 

Picture a boy who’s running for his life.

  
The hood of his precious jeep is bent all the way in from its encounter with a solid tree, the driver’s door is smashing into it with a CLONK ten feet behind him.

  
Twenty.

  
Fifty.

  
His ankle is screaming with pain but he keeps on going. He doesn’t have time for this.

  
Thin branches whip about his body and face as he’s brushing past trees and bushes, deeper and deeper into the forest. He can hear that thing crashing through the underwood in the distance.

  
What was is that Derek once said about monsters? Something like: when they run, they run?

  
Stiles pushes the thought away. And then he’s just breathing, breathing, trying hard not to trip over a root while wracking his brain for a plan, a plan, just a simple plan…

  
That thing is galloping through the forest, fifty feet behind him.

 

  
Twenty.

 

  
Ten.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why don’t you come inside? Please, come back inside._

_No, he’s watching._

 

  

How strange it is to be waking up and breathing hard, like you just ran a marathon.

Stiles sat up in bed, drenched in sweat again. Seems like this was becoming a habit.

He rubbed his eyes and, still half asleep, let himself slide off the mattress, onto the cold floor. The moment his feet hit the linoleum though –

“Fuck!”

It was his ankle. Stiles looked down. 

Oh, boy. It was way too early for his brain to figure out why but his ankle was swollen and pulsating and – oh God, is it turning blue? Looked like he ripped a tendon. But how on earth is that even possible? 

There was only one solution – he must have been sleepwalking. 

Cursing under his breath, Stiles hopped across the room to grab a pair of fresh underwear and then limped in the direction of the bathroom like a dog hit by a car. 

He wanted to cry but he didn’t, of course, what with him being a man and all. 

So much for Lacrosse in his senior year.

 

 

***

 

 

“Stiles, are you alright?,” Malia said. Lydia didn’t even take out her earphones or look at him or acknowledge his existence in any way whatsoever but that was ok because she was Lydia. After these quiet and peaceful weeks, with mass murders happening only outside of Beacon Hills, she had slipped back into general _bitch-you’re-not-even-worthy-to-look-at-me-_ mode. Which was weird because she was still hanging with them every day. But ok, whatever.

“Yup,” Stiles said only semi-successfully suppressing a pained expression while he limped to his seat in the chemistry classroom. 

“But your ankle is really bad and I can smell that you’re confused and agitated,” Malia said, looking at him earnestly. 

Don’t you just hate it when your gorgeous girlfriend who spent half her childhood roaming the woods doesn’t get the common decency of ignoring something you clearly don’t want to talk about? But then, he wasn’t sure about the girlfriend part anymore. During the past weeks they had sort of drifted apart and Malia wasn’t good at talking about touchy-feely stuff. 

Instead of answering Stiles just fell into his chair and took a deep breath. 

“Where’s Scott?,” he said when the teacher entered the classroom. Looking at his best friend’s empty seat was like watching a trailer for the next big catastrophe. 

When Lydia shrugged and Malia said, “Don’t know, haven’t seen him today,” that knot in Stiles’ stomach tightened. He got out his cellphone and started messaging Scott under his desk while putting on his _God-this-class-is-so-fascinating-_ face. 

When he hit send on a particular needy and borderline co-dependent message to Scott, he got another message. 

_> > Mason: Liam’s not here, can you ask Scott if he knows why, both not answering messages_ 

Oh, boy.

 

 

***

 

 

Oh, boy didn’t even begin to describe it. 

Liam was knocked out, face first in the grass and Scott had taken so many scratches and cuts that he looked like he was growing gills all over his body. 

But the worst of it was the smell. 

Scott had picked up the scent in his bedroom and followed it all the way here. At first he thought that was their weapon. Liam had thrown up twice before they even reached the outskirts of the forest. And, God, the things were ugly. 

Three of them had gathered in a clearing, just out of eyeshot from the town, and one of them was still standing now, its eyes gushing out of their sockets and looking in two different directions, its clawed hooves purple and slimy, its fur ragged and missing in spots like the hide of a mangy dog. Pulsating red growths scattered all over its body. That must be where that smell came from. 

Scott held his breath and attacked. It wasn’t difficult to take down because it just stood there drooling and when Scott slit its throat it let out a snort and collapsed. 

Scott was breathing hard. Wherever these abominations came from, they were certainly a lot more dangerous in herds. 

Scott looked at the fleshy mess and smelled his claws. 

Ugh. He really hoped there wasn’t such a thing as whole h- 

He spun around. 

Why hadn’t he heard them before? The stench was numbing all his senses. 

What sounded like at least a dozen of them came stampeding through the forest, loud and clear now. They were getting closer, clearly heading in the direction of the town. He shook Liam who was slowly coming to and they both got up – Liam still slightly swaying – and waited, facing the tree line, ready to attack. 

Scott saw them the moment they crossed the edge of the forest and his face fell because he had been right. There were at least twelve of them. 

“Liam, go!!,” he yelled and threw himself at the leader of the herd – but his claws only hit air. A shadow had come flying toward him and had taken the creature down with one swift blow, a lot faster and far more elegantly than Scott had ever managed. 

“Derek?!,” Scott said, flustered, but there was no time for this, not now. 

They took down whatever came galloping out of the forest and when they were done bits and peaces of hot, steaming, red gore were splattered around them, an eyeball here and there. 

Scott’s chest was heaving. “What the hell?!,” he finally managed to say. 

“You can say that again,” Braeden said, “I even had to get this.” 

She raised her weapon for Scott to see. It was a machete dripping with gore. 

Braeden walked over to the nearest tree, ripped a few leaves from a low branch and started cleaning the blade. 

“Braeden… Mr. Argent! And Derek… it’s great to see you again! Perfect timing.” 

Chris and Derek just nodded. 

“What are you doing here? Did you find Kate?” 

Chris shook his head. “No, she’s always a few steps ahead of us. She seems to be moving with a pack that is tracking and eliminating these things.” 

He tipped his head in the direction of the nearest heap of flesh. 

“There’s more?!” This day was getting better and better. 

“Yeah,” Derek said, an expression of deep disgust on his face that Scott understood perfectly. “Only back in Mexico, some of them were humans – or, well, at least we assume they have been at some point. These, however, must be deer.” 

“How do you know that?” Scott considered the furry mess, convinced that no one would have been able to tell what these things were – and that’s coming from someone who saw them when they were still put together. Sort of at least. 

“Focus on your sense of smell.” 

“Yeah, thanks, I’m really trying not to,” Scott said grimacing. 

“If you manage to block out the stench of rotten meat, you can pick up all kinds of different odors, the strongest of them – well, deer,” Derek said, ignoring Scott’s remark. 

“Scott, where are your friends?,” Chris said, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Scott. 

“In school, I guess.” 

“And no one else came? No one else picked up the scent?,” Derek said, alarmed. 

Scott shook his head. “At least no one joined us.” 

“Tell your pack, Scott, we will take care of the rest,” Chris said. Then he bent down and Scott watched in horror as he scooped a heep of flesh into a plastic bag he had taken out of his jacket. “And we really need to see Deaton.” 

“Yeah, we brought him souvenirs,” Braeden said, smiling sweetly. 

Scott nodded. He didn’t have Stiles’ brain but it all came together in his head now. Stiles had been right, as always. The massacres in Greenbay County, Redding, Klamath Falls – the descriptions Stiles had read to him over and over again excatly fit the picture in front of him. He needed to get more out of Derek, Chris and Braeden but he also needed to get back to school as fast as possible. 

“Let’s go, Liam.” 

Liam was still staring down into the grass, appalled. He tapped the severed head in front of him with the tip of his sneaker and gagged when it rolled over. 

Scott put his arm around Liam’s shoulders. 

“Come on, buddy…”

 

 

***

 

 

“You should be fine in a few weeks, Stiles. Even though I would like to know how exactly you did that…” 

Stiles could feel the soothing coolness of Melissa McCall’s fingertips on his ankle even after she had left the room. Honestly, sometimes he was jealous of Scott having such an understanding mother – or, you know, a mother. 

He pushed the imagine of his own mother’s furious face far away from him. Towards the end, she'd really only had two sides, furious and scared to death. 

Malia was clasping his hand when Stiles limped down the first floor hallway of the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. 

In the car they were still talking about what Scott had told them earlier. Malia had only believed him because she could smell the stench on his skin, Mason had started hypothesizing right away but Stiles had said little. His brain was working but as Malia drove his Jeep through the dim streets at glacier speed he was still trying to find out what it was that he wasn’t seeing. As always, there had to be a big picture. Things didn’t just happen in Beacon Hills. 

“Mh?” 

“I said, I’m glad Derek’s here again,” Malia repeated. “He’ll know what to do.” 

“Well, if you mean by that we absolutely need more of that destructive agression we’ve had so little of during the past weeks, then I guess you’re right,” Stiles muttered. 

“I mean, nothing against Scott,” Malia continued, “but when it comes to hordes of monsters, he’s always so… so-” 

“So True Alpha?,” Stiles said. “Yeah, I get what you’re saying.” 

She pulled into the driveway. 

“Thanks,” Stiles grabbed his bag, then looked up at Malia, “er… would you like to come in?” 

“Er. Thanks. I get going I think, my dad’s waiting,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll walk from here.” 

Stiles couldn’t help but feel hurt by her answer but he nodded and they said goodbye. 

What was up with her lately? Not that she had been acting strange in general but she was withdrawing from him and they hadn’t had sex in – woah, ages… not that Stiles was in the mood for romance lately but a man has urges, right? And he’s totally thinking of sex not cuddling. Plus, Malia’s idea of romance probably involved hunting something or… running through the forest naked or – actually, he didn’t really know. So what could he possibly have done wrong? 

“How’s your toe?,” Sheriff Stilinksi said when his son hobbled in. 

“ _Ankle_ , dad, my ankle,” Stiles snapped and his dad said, “Ah, right. Do you have any dirty laundry?” 

“I’ll go check. And my ankle’s fine, just need to take it slow. I tore a tendon.” 

“How-” 

“Practice.” 

“Ah.” His dad nodded with such a look of complete and perfect understanding on his face that Stiles was really pissed. 

_But the team needs you, what on earth are you gonna do?!!_  

Dream on, Stiles. 

Nevertheless, a little acting, just for your teenage son’s ego’s sake… 

Stiles limped into his room, threw his backpack onto his bed, turned around, pushed the door shut and jumped two feet into the air, landing – on his ankle, of course. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?!,” he hissed, his face contorted with pain. 

Derek shot him a dark glare. 

“Where were you last night?,” he demanded. 

“ _Good_ to see you, Stiles, how _is_ your _life_ , just _great_ , and _how_ was Mexico, oh, _you_ know, _really_ hot and I _hate_ hot weather and _people_ and cacti and…,” Stiles muttered and hopped over to his bed. This was the shitty end to a crappy day and he was so pissed he didn’t even care that Derek’s face grew gloomier by the second. 

Ok, maybe he cared a little? But seriously, how about all the non-intrusive ways of coming to see somebody like ringing the door bell or knocking or, you know, you could always call. 

The idea of being able to add Derek to his contacts brightened up his mood a little. _1 missed call by Alpha Has-been. 2 new messages by Grumpy Asshole._ So many possibilities, so little space. 

“Are you done?,” Derek said coldly. 

“What do you want, Derek?” 

Stiles clumsily dragged his feet onto the bed and avoided looking at his visitor. But man, he'd been in Mexico alright, he was really tan and Stiles had to acknolwedge that it added to Derek's general sexiness, like that had been necessary. Not that he was jealous or anything. And did he get taller? 

“ _Where were you last night_ ,” Derek repeated, arms folded in front of his muscular chest. 

Stiles took a deep breath. This guy was even more infuriating now than when they’d last met. 

“I was sleeping, Derek, because I’m a teenager with a boring life and it was a school night.” 

Derek stepped closer scrutinizing Stiles with his hazel eyes as if to assess whether the boy was lying. 

“Then, why did I pick up your scent in the woods near my house?” 

“I thought you were in Mexico,” Stiles said, sounding only half as snappish as he’d meant to. His heart had started racing. 

Which Derek, of course, heard loud and clear. 

“You’re lying,” Derek stated. “And you’re also lying to Scott.” 

Stupid werewolf superpowers. 

“I’m not!,” Stiles said forcefully. 

“It is vital that you tell me the truth, Stiles.” 

“I’m telling you the truth, even if the truth is none of your business. You’re not in our pack, you’re not an alpha anymore and I’m no scared of you any-” 

Derek had hesitated only for a split second. Before Stiles could end his sentence, Derek had grabbed his upper arm and yanked him onto the floor of his bedroom. Ok, this was happening. Again. 

“Alright, alright, I’m scared of you, ok! God...” 

Why was it that Derek never left him with even one shred of his dignitiy? 

Stiles clutched his neck, certain that Derek meant to werewolf-scan him by digging his claws into his spine which of course meant that his head hit the floor hard. 

“Where. Were You. Last Night,” Derek snarled. 

“Ow, you’re breaking my arm,” Stiles said, cheek pressed against the linoleum. 

“ _Answer_ the _question_.” 

“I was sleeping but I dreamed I was out in the woods!” 

Derek’s death-grip on his arm loosened. 

“I’m telling the truth you goddamn – bully…,” Stiles said followed by a few mumbled words that sounded a lot like 'Let go or I'll poison you'. 

Derek let go of him, apparently satisfied with Stiles’ answer, and stepped back. 

Stiles rubbed his upper arm, glaring at him darkly and resentfully, 

Derek was just standing there, as if nothing had happened. 

“No, I’m glad you’re back, Derek,” Stiles said, “I really missed your dead eyes, pointless violence and fuck-off-attitude.” 

“You sure it was a dream? And stop bitching, I went easy on you.” 

“It _felt_ real but I woke in my bed – and I’ve never sleepwalked before, I asked my dad,” Stiles mumbled. 

Derek nodded like it all made sense to him now. 

“Ok then,” he said and turned around. 

“Oh – _ok_ then?,” Stiles said, clumsily climbing back onto the bed again. What the hell was that all about? And, when Derek opened the door, “My dad’s down there.” 

Derek stopped. 

“I know. He let me in. So I figured I should leave the same way.” 

“ _What_?” 

Unbelievable. But he still had to be home by ten. His dad really needed to check his priorities. 

Derek had already stepped into the hallway but then he turned back and Stiles could see that he was actually grinning. 

The freaking maniac. 

“I’m glad I’m back, too, Stiles.”

 

 

***

 

 

The next day, the whole pack was gathered in the library to discuss recent events. 

“So whenever we pick up the scent again – and it’s not really hard to miss, believe me – we’ll all follow it, ok?,” Scott concluded. 

Liam and Malia nodded. 

“What about those of us who don’t have hyper-sensitive werewolf noses?,” Mason said and Scott shook his head immediately. “No need for you to be there – I don’t think they are dangerous for _us_ but apparently they come in herds. You better team up with Stiles, Lydia, Deaton and Mr. Argent to work out why exactly these things are here.” 

They fell silent for a few moments and then Mason asked, “Are they really that creepy?” 

“Like a nightmare, dude,” Liam muttered. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, “to me, a nightmare is running from something you can’t see and you  know it’s getting closer and you can’t outrun it but you’re trying anyway because you cling to dear life.” 

“Wow, that was precise,” Malia said. 

“Sounds like a little boy’s nightmare,” Lydia said who, for some reason, was wearing mirrored sunglasses. “I just hope these things aren’t contagious.” 

Scott shrugged. “Deaton doesn’t know yet, but they certainly smell like something you should keep away from.” 

“So we basically protect the city?,” Malia said. “Or the Nemeton? Maybe that’s where they want go?” 

“That’s what I thought,” Scott said, “But Derek and Mr. Argent were certain that the herd just passed it by without stopping. They were heading straight for the town. Uh… I don’t think they’re very smart. Just…. ugly. And when in herds, dangerous and highly aggressive.” 

“Heading for Beacon Hills from all directions of the continent. Well that’s reassuring,” Lydia said. 

They fell silent again. 

“Lydia, I have to ask… what’s up with the sunglasses?,” Mason finally said. “It’s… it’s sort of dark in here.” 

“Oh, just – been partying a little too hard, hangover, you know – bright light, big no no.” 

Malia frowned. 

“You were home last night and then you complained about Andy not calling you this whole morning.” 

Before Lydia could do or say anything, Malia had snatched the glasses from her face – and the whole pack took a step back. 

“Oh my God, what happened to your _eyes_?!,” Malia said grimacing. “They’re all red and puffy and – icky.” 

Irritated, Lydia grabbed the glasses from Malias hands and shoved them back in her face. 

“Are you… crying?,” Kira said and Malia, needlessly, added, “Looks like you’ve been crying for like a year.” 

Lydia, visibly agitated, threw her Ipod on the table and fumbled with the headphones as if she had decided that the conversation was over. 

“Lydia,”Stiles said soothingly after they had watched her in silence for about half a minute, “Come on, what’s wrong?” 

She stopped, hesitating, and finally threw the earphones back on the table. Little drops of liquid were now running over her cheeks and dripping steadily onto her leather jacket. Lydia let out a frustrated squeak and dove into the big, purple bag that was resting in her lap. After a few seconds she had found a tissue and started dabbing at her cheeks. 

While the others were watching, at a loss for words, Malia lifted the lid of the bag and looked inside. 

“Oh my God, it’s full of tissues. There’s not even books in there. What’s going on with you?” 

The whole group stared at Lydia. 

“I – I don’t know,” Lydia sobbed, “I can’t stop!” 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Don’t think I don’t feel for you, Stiles.

All your little worries and idiosyncrasies, they make sense to me. Your dad and your friends mean the world to you. You wouldn’t be the same without them, yes?

I’m not a killer, Stiles. I’m a connoisseur.

I’m a sage.

You think this doesn’t have to happen, that there is somehow a way around fresh monsters, a new showdown. But everything’s already in place.

Just hit start. Go out there and be yourself.

Can you feel it, Stiles?

 

This is how it begins.

 

 

  

 

 

***

 

 

“So is there a way to make it stop?,” Scott said, a deeply worried expression on his face.

“Well… can’t say I have ever seen anything like it,” Deaton said slowly. He was still pulling at Lydia’s skin, examining her bloodshot eyes. She didn’t seem to be in pain, only a little embarrassed and – scared?

“You should go to the ER, Lydia, just to be sure. But if it’s not an infection or,” he shot her a glance, “drug-induced, then it might be related to your banshee powers. Banshees foresee death but they also grieve.”

“So… it’s like when she was screaming only now she’s crying?,” Stiles said.

“Well, have you felt like screaming, lately?,” Deaton asked Lydia, “or are you… maybe suppressing it?”

“I think I would have been able to think that far by myself,” Lydia said haughtily. “So of course not, I don’t feel like screaming.”

“What _do_ you feel?,” said Scott.

“Stop looking at me like I’m your problem child,” Lydia said heatedly, “I’m not sad – except about your choice of brown pants with a black shirt, Scott.”

Stiles was grinning while Scott still tried to figure out what his pants had to do with anything.

“Anyway,” she hopped off the examination table, “take me home, Stiles, will you? The Real Housewives of New Jersey is on in fifteen minutes.”

Scott, Stiles and Deaton exchanged a look.

“Stiles?,” Lydia yelled from outside.

“Coming!” Stiles fumbled the car keys out of his pocket.

“No Housewives for her,” Deaton said to Scott. “Take her to the ER.”

Scott nodded and rushed after them.

 

 

 

“Would you stop rolling your eyes, Lydia, so I can have a look at them?,” Melissa said.

Lydia did and asked, “Mrs. McCall, where is the doctor?”

“You’re welcome to wait for four hours and see one,” Melissa said. She shone a light into Lydia’s right eye. Then the left.

“Looks like an allergy. A really bad one.”

“An allergy?,” Lydia said puzzled and completely forgot to be annoyed.

“An allergy. Have you been close to any cats or dogs or are you allergic to any kind of pollen?”

“Close?,” Lydia said with a blank stare.

“Yes, close, touching or inhaling something you’re allergic to,” Melissa said.

Lydia shook her head slowly.

“Ok, keep yourself hydrated, alright? And come here again if it doesn’t go away within 24 hours.”

 

 

 

Lydia shook her head no to all of Stiles’s and Scott’s further questions. When Stiles pulled out of the Martins’ driveway a few minutes later, watching Lydia rummage her bag for her keys in his rear-view mirror, he couldn’t help but feel deeply uncomfortable.

“There’s something she’s not telling us,” Scott yelled as Stiles shifted into the second gear.

“You think?! So Derek’s loft?”

“Yeah, you can drop me off there…”

Stiles narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.

Ten minutes later Stiles pulled the hand brake.

Scott didn’t move, he just stared at the dark building in front of them.

“Werewolf loft. You reached your desired destination.”

“Stiles?”

“Mh?”

“Derek will run with the pack again.”

“Alright,” Stiles said. Scott turned to him.

“He asked to be my beta and I – I trust him. I think Derek’s never really wanted to be an alpha anyway.”

“That’s your decision, man.”

“He wanted me to get your ok as well.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his mouth open in surprise. “Well, alright, he has my blessing.”

Scott nodded slowly.

“Alright.” He took a deep breath and got out of the Jeep.

 

 

 

Stiles pulled into the driveway. All the lights in the house were out, his father was working.

He sat in the Jeep for another minute, no motivation whatsoever to go inside and start on his homework.

“Ow, dammit,” Stiles muttered and threw the car door shut.

Driving with his ankle – brilliant idea, just brilliant.

Before he reached the front door his smartphone started buzzing. He fished it out of his pocket dropping his backpack, jacket and the three books he’d been carrying.

Smooth.

Glad no one saw this.

He tipped on the screen to accept the call.

“Hello?”

All he heard on the other end was loud sobbing.

“Lydia?”

“It’s turning blue, Stiles. The skin around my eyes is turning blue!”

 

 

 

“Oh – my….,” Stiles started but stopped himself to not hurt Lydia. She looked absolutely ghastly. The skin around her eyes was purple and netted with thin red lines, the white of her eyes bloodshot. Her cheeks were still dripping with tears.

“And that came on in what – thirty minutes?”

She spun around to face him.

“Ok that’s a lot of colors.”

“What’s happening to me?!,” she squeaked with an expression of – well, it was hard to tell at this point, really.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it and closed it again. There was no downplaying the fact that Lydia looked like she was turning into a ghoul, head first.

“And there is this monologue in my head, I think I might be going crazy. For real.”

“Er, you’re a banshee?,” Stiles unnecessarily pointed out. He was slouching in her computer chair, eyes darting around the room as if the answer was hidden somewhere between the piles of books and heaps of expensive shoes.

Man, Lydia’s room…

There was a time when he had given anything just to be in here – and then to be the one person Lydia would call, the one guy she would turn to when her face started rotting. Granted, all the others were out and busy with their gore-fest but still. Isn’t that the dream?

These feelings felt like a hundred years ago. Old Stiles was gone gone gone and he loved to think that a new, more awesome version of Stiles was in operation now. Super-human Stiles. Werewolf-sidekick Stiles. Yeah, none of those sounded good. He would come up with his superhero name later.

Stiles spun around in the chair while Lydia was dabbing make-up onto her cheeks restraining a whimper every time she touched her skin.

“Lydia – why do you have eight hairbrushes? I mean, wouldn’t _one_ -”

“It has _never_ been like that. It’s not _supposed_ to be like that.” Lydia threw the foundation back onto the table, her eyes wide open like they might bob out of their sockets any second, admittedly, she was starting to look borderline insane. Not to mention unhealthy. But who knows what that meant for a banshee.

“Maybe that’s banshee level two,” Stiles suggested trying not to look at her too closely. “Like… Super-Saiyajin.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?!”

“Just trying to help.”

“Then make it _stop_! Make him go away.”

Lydia had crouched down beside her make-up table, knees pulled closely to her chest.

“What did you just say?” Stiles was staring at her.

“Make it stop, please make it stop…,” Lydia mumbled. She was rocking back and forth.

“No, before that.” He squatted down beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia, you said ‘Make him go away.’ Make who go away?”

She raised her head and Stiles almost jumped.

Man, she did look horrible.

“Who are you talking about Lydia? Tell me!”

Lydia stared at him, her eyes blank.

“Not now,” she breathed.

“ _What_? Lydia, who are you talking about? Have you seen something?”

“ _Not_. _Now_ ,” she said forcefully. She had stopped rocking. Stiles determined that instead of scared to death she now looked menacing which was oh so much better.

“Er… any specific time that would suit you? Wanna check your calendar?”

“You don’t understand,” Lydia hissed. “He’s _watching_.”

 

 

 

 

_“Claudia, please come inside, it’s freezing out there.”_

_“No. He’s watching.”_

_“What are you talking about?”_

_“You know who I’m talking about.”_

_“Wha- Stiles?”_

_“He’s always watching, John. Waiting. Right now, he’s inside, waiting for me and I can’t, I just can’t…”_

 

That dialog had been stuck in his head since he was a little boy, since he overheard it while squatting in his room under that window he had opened just an inch when his mother had stormed out onto the porch. He never stopped crying that night because she was right, she was right, she was right… he _was_ watching her. Always. He had tried to stop but she was his mom, after all.

When the nogitsune told him, he had killed his mother, Stiles immediately knew what it was talking about.

But this was different. This was a whole new story.

 

 

***

 

 

“Scott, on your left!,” Derek yelled but there were too many of them. The stench was so bad that Scott thought he was going to faint. They were wheezing and gurgling and slinking about the clearing.

Chris Argent’s arrows steadily found their targets but these creatures would win by sheer numbers. It was about a hundred against seven and even if he sliced two at a time, it seemed like four new ones sprung up instead. Kira had almost been trampled earlier.

The creatures were desperately trying to get past them to Beacon Hills.

Scott didn't want to imagine what would happen when a herd of otherworldly beasts came stampeding into town. They wouldn't spare old Mrs. Lambstock's rose garden, that was for sure.

“Scott, down!,” Chris shouted but it was too late. What looked like a dense line of mad and mangled horses was coming directly at him.

 

 

 ***

 

 

Stiles was steering his Jeep through rush hour traffic, muttering to himself and shaking his head no time and again.

 

We’re doomed, Lydia had whispered.

“If that doesn’t fit the general mood...,” Stiles said drily.

Not _like_ they were doomed but _they were doomed_.

Yup, sounded pretty final.

Also, Lydia was a drama queen.

Granted, when they had first found out that Scott was a werewolf and he was still helplessly shifting between human and animal, he had told him that he was cursed. Now that was articulate and  logical: curser, cursee. Curse.

But doomed?

What’s up with that… biblical rhetoric?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cars were already pulling around, honking angrily at the dumbass who killed his Jeep in the middle of Main Street because he can’t drive a stick.

Stiles was just sitting there staring at the brightly lit asphalt.

Everything in him was silent.

 

 

***

 

 

“Ok, so I think that’s it for me and then this guy just comes out of freaking nowhere and takes the things down. Seriously, I’ve never seen such speed, even Derek admitted that.”

It was the next morning, ten minutes before their first class. There was a lot of chatting and laughing while people were swarming around them and into the building.

Stiles tried to look fascinated but the way Scott was talking abou killing lately made him uneasy. Sure, Deaton had said that these things weren’t animals and were barely alive but still. It was weird. Like shredding these zombie things was the outlet the wolf in him had been looking for – and needed – for a long time.

“…and he told us he’d picked up the scent in his bedroom just like me. Can you imagine that? I still can’t believe the people in Beacon Hills can’t smell it. I mean, even now…,” Scott was saying when Stiles snapped back into the conversation.

“Alright. So this superhuman dude comes along and saves the day?”

“Yeah and guess what – it took me a minute or so but then I recognized him and – you sure you’re alright, man?” Scott raised his eyesbrows at Stiles who was staring into the distance.

Stiles met his best friend’s gaze with silence. Then he nodded.

The whole gesture was so unlike Stiles that Scott glared at him uneasily.

“Ok, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I-,” he suddenly looked at someone behind Stiles and said, “Hey guys!” Stiles turned around.

It was Lydia and Malia flanking a guy he hadn’t seen in a long time. Stiles’s heart started pounding and, while the small group approached, he hoped Scott wouldn’t pay attention to his heartbeat in this crowd of people gathering in front of the school.

“How’s your – how are you?,” Stiles said to Lydia who was still wearing sunglasses but looked at lot less puffy than yesterday evening.

“Brilliant,” she said and brushed her hair back in a trademark Lydia move. “It stopped.”

“What? Just like that?,” Stiles said puzzled.

“Yep. Just like that.”

Stiles frowned at her and Malia said, “Scott, can I borrow your math homework?”

“Sure.”

Stiles was about to explain to Malia that the only person failing as hard at math as she was Scott but Scott was already saying, “Stiles, this is Theo – I told you about him, he was the guy who saved our asses yesterday.”

Theo grinned, nodded hi to Scott. Lydia and Malia beamed at him and it wasn’t difficult to see why. Even measured against the general handsomeness of young werewolves in this town this guy was exceptionally good-looking. Well, compared to Derek though…

Stiles said hello but didn’t smile.

Theo quickly made a few steps towards them and put out his hand. Stiles shook it reluctantly. Scott thought about giving Stiles a well-deserved slap across the head but said instead, “You probably don’t remember but we were together in primary school.”

“My parents and I moved back here last week because my dad was transferred back to Beacon Hills. He’s an accountant,” Theo said.

“You should have seen him, Stiles, he was great yesterday. Saved my life.” Scott smiled at Theo who smiled back. Stiles made a gurgling sound as if he was choking on a piece of bread.

“Great,” he said finally. “Welcome back, Theo.”

Theo looked from Scott to Stiles, apparently detecting a weird atmosphere.

“Ok… I – I better run. Wouldn’t wanna be late on my first day. See you, Scott. Stiles.”

He flashed his white teeth and turned around.

The second Theo had vanished inside the school, Scott grabbed Stiles and dragged him away from the girls, over to the bicycle rack. It said a lot about their relationship that Malia didn’t even ask and Lydia just completely ignored the move.

“What’s wrong with you?!”

Stiles shook his head. He seemed sorry.

“I’m just – a little down. I’ll be alright again soon.”

He avoided Scott’s eyes. This behavior would have alarmed regular Scott – but werewolf Scott sensed danger with all his senses.

“Something’s wrong with you, Stiles and – I’m sorry, I let you down ok?”

“Huh?” Stiles was so surprised that he looked up.

“When you told me about your dreams. Maybe-”

“Forget what I said,” Stiles interrupted. “It’s just that I’ve been – tired lately… and I think – Malia is going to break up with me…”

“Oh… I’m sorry, buddy… you sure there’s nothing you can do? Have you talked to her?”

Stiles shrugged.

“I don’t know, Scott, I can’t sniff emotions like freaking everyone here.”

Scott’s phone was buzzing.

They were looking at each other.

“You should take that,” Stiles said.

It was Derek. Of course.

“A herd is approaching Beacon Hills from North-East. Derek reckons they’ll be here in half an hour,” Scott said after exchanging a few words over the phone.

“Is Derek ever capable of solving his own problem on his freakin’ own? You would think all these muscles must be good for something…”

“I’m his alpha now, Stiles, he’s just letting me know what’s going on. And Theo might be joining the pack, too.”

“Oh goody, I can’t wait for that to start.”

As long as his sarcasm wasn’t broken things couldn’t be that bad.

“We’ll see. But he’s a nice guy and he was really great yesterday.”

“You should keep away from Theo, that guy is bad news,” Stiles said.

“What? He was bullied a lot, yeah, but I wouldn’t call that bad news.”

“Scott, don’t you remember _anything_ from primary school? Anything at all?”

When Scott looked puzzled, Stiles said, “That bird we found on Josh Feldman’s front lawn?”

Scott tilted his head as if he was trying to catch an elusive memory.

“Yeah… that rings a bell… what does that have to do with Theo?”

“He stomped it,” Stiles said. “We were all wondering what to do with it and you wanted to put it back in the nest even though Mr. Feldman said that wouldn’t work and then Theo just stepped on it and crushed it.”

“Right… and you were pretty upset, weren’t you? Mr. Feldman had to call your dad.”

Stiles’s cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat.

“I may or may not have cried myself to sleep that night, the point is-”

“Stiles, that was a long time ago. We all did stupid, childish stuff back then.”

“All I’m saying is, people don’t change in essentials, ok? Theo was bullied later because he was a weird kid who always destroyed other people’s stuff. And he didn’t really care about it either. Just – don’t let him into the pack too easily…”

“Ok, I really gotta…”

“And you can’t just skip school because Derek wants you to. You already missed three days and it’s only the second week of the year, you don’t need any more absences. And Theo was, is and always will be a brat and if he’s in the pack, I’m out. I go full omega, I swear. ”

“Alright, dad.” Scott was grinning while Stiles dragged him towards the building.

“I’ll just tell Derek you’re gonna take care of it…”

“And I will. Stiles is the man. Derek should know that by now.”

 

 

***

 

 

Scott’s phone had the chance to buzz with messages three times before Mrs. Martin confiscated it and gave him detention for the rest of the week.

Stiles let his head hit the desk with a loud CLONK. Unbelievable.

 

 

“They dealt with it. Apparently, Derek had overestimated the number. But seems like they keep coming…”

They were leaving the cafeteria. Scott gave Stiles his phone back.

“Alright. See? No problem at all. You pass the first math test next week and then econ and chemistry, you graduate and we all go to college together. End of story. And Derek-”

“He sounded pretty mad.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I can picture that. Vividly.”

“I’m the alpha,” Scott said, grinning.

“My man,” Stiles said and slapped him over the shoulder.

“I told him it’s your fault.”

 

 

After dropping off Scott for detention, Stiles hurried along the empty corridor. The double doors looked even more welcoming than usual.

The day was finally, finally over. Stiles could withdraw at long last. He felt like throwing up and he’d rather do that in his own bathroom than in front of a school of scavengers and vultures. And Theo. He grimaced.

If trouble had a name…

“Stiles?,” a clear voice behind him said.

Of course.

Stiles could almost hear the smug expression on his stupid face.

“A word, man?”

Nope. A world of nope. Stiles walked faster.

Only, Theo was a werewolf now and if he wanted to talk to him he would talk to him.

He had grabbed hold of Stiles’s wrist.

“A word?”

Stiles was sweating. He nodded curtly.

Before he knew it, Theo had shoved him through the nearest door into an empty classroom.

Stiles almost missed the times Gerard Argent had monitored every single corner in the school and had gone full Umbridge on any group of teens putting their head together. He’d rather face ten Gerards than this guy again.

“You’re clearly mad.”

It was a statement.

“Listen, I just want to run with the pack. Omegas don’t fare well on their own, you know that.”

Stiles looked at him, coldly.

“Drop the act.”

Theo smiled mischievously.

“If I’ve ever done anything to deserve your – antipathy, I’m sorry.”

He looked downright innocent, with his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders pulled up to his ears in a gesture of _What have I ever done to you, man_.

“Are you done?”

“Oh, let’s see – yes. Yes, I think I am. In fact, I have to hurry, I promised Malia to help her with her driving. Ah, a reaction, finally. You really can’t pull off aloof Stiles.”

“You son of a- if you as much as touch her- don’t you dare talk to her-”

Stiles was breathing hard.

Theo shrugged. A smile spread across his pretty face but for some reason it made him look less handsome than before.

“That’s gonna be difficult during a two hour drive. Plus, do you really think it wise to forbid your girlfriend to talk to other guys? Don’t you trust her?”

Stiles just stood there, staring at him, his mouth half-open.

Theo stepped closer. He put his hand on Stiles’s shoulder.

“I’m just kidding.”

He let his hand wander a few inches towards Stiles’s throat.

“We should really have a boys’ night, for old times’ sake… remember when we really hit it off?”

He let his hand drop to his side and stepped back to take in Stiles’s expression of – utter shock?

Or was it disbelief?

Theo raised his eyebrows.

“Get a grip, Stiles. No one likes a sore loser.”

He turned around and was out the door in a second.

Stiles thought he could hear him explode into laughter in the hallway.

But that was probably just his imagination.

 

 

Stiles ran out of the building giving a fuck about anyone seeing him, judging him.

He was upset, he knew he looked it, mind your own fucking business.

Once inside, he threw his backpack in the direction of the passenger seat. It hit the window and fell to the floor, books spilling under the seat.

He fumbled the key into the ignition, chest heaving.

 

 

He killed the engine twice before his Jeep finally took him away.

 

 

 

What he didn’t see was this.

Theo has slumped down against the wall, right around the corner, next to the turqoise row of lockers.

Right now, he's holding up his right hand closely to his face like he wants to sniff it. It's shaking.

Theo's looking at it with an expression of amazement. As if he’s never seen it before.

He grabs it with his left to make it stop but you can tell from the way he's rubbing his fingers, his shoulders tense and pulled up, his face twitching, that it's not working.

 

 

 

When Stiles threw the door of his Jeep shut with a metallic CLANK ten minutes later, Derek was already rushing towards him.

Apparently he had been waiting in front of the house this time to get to him a minute earlier.

And, boy, he was mad.

“What the hell were you thinking?!,” he hissed and Stiles stumbled back against his Jeep what whith the combined vibe of Derekness coming right at him and all.

“Could you please stop interfering? Scott should have been there this morning. He’s the alpha. It’s his responsibility.”

Stiles tipped his head to one shoulder.

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

Then he simply walked around Derek and left him standing there.

To punch his Jeep probably.

Even though it would hurt to hear the sound of his baby denting in around a solid werewolf fist, today of all days Stiles felt incapable of standing his ground against Derek’s long list of imaginary alpha rules.

Stiles went inside and threw the door in Derek’s face who was apparently following him.

Ok, so they were gonna have this talk.

When Derek pushed the front door shut behind him, Stiles threw his backpack onto the sofa and said, “No need to be all pissed. You were fine on your own, right?”

Derek blinked and made a few steps into the room.

“That’s not the point. I shouldn’t have been on my own. The whole pack protects the town.”

“The largest part of which,” said Stiles, “is still going to school, so chill, dude. And yeah, Scott’s the alpha – you don’t get to tell him what he’s supposed to do anymore.”

He walked into the kitchen.

When Derek followed him Stiles took a deep breath.

“What do you want from me, Derek?”

“I want us to be on the same page. You’re Scott’s best friend and you have the greatest influence on him. He needs to understand what it means to be the only alpha in Beacon Hills. These things are only the vangard. Something’s coming. I can feel it.”

He was calm again, looking at Stiles intently.

Stiles took two sodas out of the fridge and threw one in Derek’s direction who caught it without even blinking.

“You just take off with Chris and Braeden – drop out of the pack without so much as a word of apology and then you show up here one day and start bossing us around again. I don’t know about the werewolf code but I reckon that’s not how it works.”

Derek blinked.

“I had to track down Kate. It was my personal business.”

“So pack comes first, ok?! You said it yourself…”

Stiles opened his soda, went back to the living room.

Derek was leaning in the door, open soda can in his hand.

“You were mad that I left,” he said surprised.

“No way, dude,” Stiles said when Derek started grinning. “I just _hate_ hypocrites…”

Stiles sipped his soda and wished he could wipe that satisfied smirk off Derek’s face.

They were silent for a few seconds, then Derek suddenly said, “There’s something else I wanted to run by you. It’s about the guy we met last night, Theo.”

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on his Xbox that sat in a lump of cables next to the TV. He really needed a Halo night with Scott.

“I don’t like this guy, he’s sort of shady.”

Stiles suppressed a laugh despite himself. Derek Hale calling someone shady was just absurd.

“There’s something off about the way he was right there to safe Scott. He said he moved but he might have been thrown out of his old pack. I will try and find out what I can. In the meanwhile, I need you to look out for Scott – and the pack.”

Stiles nodded.

“I’ve known Theo when we were kids and, believe me, no one is less eager for him to join than me. In fact, I really hoped to never see his stupid face again.”

Stiles realized too late that his voice was trembling.

Derek looked at him surprised.

“Theo,” he said. He made a few steps towards Stiles. “Theo,” he said again.

His eyes were glowing blue for a second and then flickered back into hazel.

“Are you having a stroke,” Stiles muttered even though he was well aware of what Derek was doing. He knew he was sweating. He knew his heart was pounding wildly.

“What do you know about Theo,” Derek said. He looked like he had all his superhuman senses set on Stiles who was visibly tensing up.

“I really despise him. Is that enough?” He tried to sound indifferent but his whole body was playing against him. He quickly got up and moved away from Derek who was slowly drawing closer, his eyes narrowed and piercing Stiles.

“Don’t you have someone else to bark at?”

“Tell me what you know about Theo,” Derek snarled.

Alright, definitely slipping into wolf-mode now. Stiles backed further away.

“I know for one he’s an asshole,” he said.

Then Derek closed the gap between them. He grabbed Stiles’s T-shirt and pushed him into the wall next to the door.

“Tell me,” Derek snarled and this was not a new scenario but something was different today.

First of all, Stiles’s heart was beating way faster than it should be, even for Stiles. A split-second later, Derek realized that the boy was having a full-blown panic attack. His whole body was trembling.

Derek let go of him and Stiles slumped down against the wall. He hugged his shoulders, head bent down.

Derek was just staring at him, apparently unsure what to say or how to understand what had just happened.

Then there was this knock on the door Stiles had been waiting for.

He closed his eyes, not caring now what Derek thought. He wanted to tell him to stay but for some reason his mouth was not working.

_Knock knock._

“Stiles? I know you’re home, I can hear you breathe. Can I come in?”

And then, as if through lips cracking into a sly smile, “It’s me. Theo.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is alarmed. Some old memories revisited. Steo action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the glacier slow build, guys. This chapter will be a fast one again, I hope. Thank you for reading! Hope you'll like it.

Derek’s eyes were flaring ice blue.

His body had spiralled into defensive stance long before his thoughts could catch up.

Time slowed down. He was ready to react.

He quickly tapped through his channels.

This scent, oddly strange and utterly familiar.

Derek loathed it so completely that his first impulse was to rip the person in front of the door apart.

Just like the day before when Chris Argent had thrown him a puzzled glance but no one else had noticed.

Stiles had sunk to the floor, head buried in his hands.

As if he wanted to make himself vanish.

The guy in front of the door was Theo of course. His heartrate was accelerated which was normal for a person in expectation of an event – Stiles opening the door in this case.

And then, like before, there was something else – he couldn’t really pinpoint it due to the faint yet lingering stench of rotting meat that still pervaded all of Beacon Hills. He was aware of it during every single heartbeat – and of the fact that at least a portion of his vigilance was consequently deadened.

On the margins of his animal consciousness, his human mind was telling him to work out the connection but as always, he would trust his senses more than analytical reasoning because who had time for that when in danger. Or ever.

And this – a ridiculously everyday situation but it felt like life and death.

Then Theo shifted slightly in front of the door and a low growl escaped Derek’s lips.

Go ahead, come in and I’ll shred your face.

He couldn’t do that of course, Theo was just a boy.

Derek was struggling to rein in his anger and teeth.

“Er. Alright. You have company, apparently,” Theo said in front of the door.

He had known that before of course but this guy was all small talk. As if Derek had needed a reason to hate him when his senses already told him that he was odd.

But Stiles couldn’t possibly know that.

What the mere sound of Theo’s voice did to the boy though – Derek couldn’t wrap his head around what his senses were telling him.

“Derek, don’t pester my old friend too much, alright? See you in school, Stiles.”

Stiles must have heard and felt Theo withdraw as well. He visibly eased up. Now he only looked tired. He just sat there for a while and then slowly got up without saying anything. He was embarrassed and he was still shaken up pretty badly – from a guy knocking at his door.

Derek screwed his head to the left, then to the right but he couldn’t take in any additional information except that the Stilinksis should really get rid of that sofa, the smell of old cat piss was barely detectable, even for him, but still revolting.

Alright. It couldn’t be helped.

“What was that about?”

Stiles didn’t look up. He slouched over to the stairs and started climbing them.

“Old acquaintance,” me mumbled.

That answer was inacceptable of course and Derek knew that Stiles knew it.

He slid up the stairs behind him soundlessly.

It was weird. Against the foul smell hanging over Beacon Hills, he could smell Stiles even more distinctly than usual. He smelled more than a girl than any guy or kid he’d ever met – a particular piece of information he was saving up for when he had to get back at him for something. And that was just a question of time. Unless Scott or any of the others did it first. Maybe he should play that card rather sooner than later.

Not now though. Now, Stiles was even more vulnerable than usual.

He had collapsed in his computer chair and was staring at the ceiling.

Derek silently moved into the room behind him and shut the door.

He knew that Stiles was mortified about his involuntary display of feelings.

Needless to say that Derek, for a change, felt utterly uncomfortable in Stiles’ room. Like he was spying on something intimate. Not for his eyes. Or any of his senses.

“Stiles,” Derek tried and he thought it sounded considerate enough.

“You _need_ to tell me what you know about Theo.”

“He used to bully me,” Stiles said with a raspy voice. Derek didn’t have to hear it to know that Stiles was about to cry. He automatically took a step back.

“Before I was friends with Scott.”

He wasn’t lying yet it didn’t make any sense to Derek.

“And he threatened to kill you?”

Stiles’s computer chair squeaked every time he swung to the left. Then to the right. The sound was gnawing at Derek’s nerves but he successfully and habitually suppressed the sudden rush of anger that made him want to shove Stiles to the floor and throw the chair through the window.

“No,” Stiles said finally. “But he’s a bastard. You… got that, I assume. Evil. Yeah, that sounds right.”

He turned around in his chair. He wasn’t crying but very pale and his cat eyes looked weirdly glossy.

“Is that enough?”

He wanted him gone of course. But there was one more thing Derek needed to know so he couldn’t care less.

“What does he want from you now? Why is he here again?”

Stiles let his gaze drop to the floor. Derek knew that he was about to lie.

Or, at least he clearly didn’t want to tell him.

“I can’t say for sure…,” Stiles said slowly rubbing his hands. “But yeah, I guess he wants-”

He fell silent.

Derek watched in amazement how the boy seemed to change again in front of his eyes.

What on earth was up with this Theo guy?!

“Stiles.” He sounded commanding now. He knew it was wrong but the information was vital. Not just because Theo wanted into their pack but also because Stiles sucked at protecting Stiles.

And protection he utterly needed. He wasn’t aware of it but he was the perfect prey. He looked it, even smelled it.

Stiles was fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.

“Please Derek, just leave…”

He looked him in the eyes now and for some reason that was all the persuasion he needed.

But he would pursue this.

One thing was finally clear to him now, that Theo was somehow at the center of it all.

“Don’t tell Scott…”

Derek nodded curtly, foot already on the windowsill.

There was no way he would go past that sofa again.

 

 

 

If someone had to see him in this state of fear and confusion – why did it have to be Derek, of all people? Derek who can smell his anxiety, sense his panic attacks and who is stoicism personified?

Then again – better than his dad probably.

It all made sense now, so much sense he wanted to scream and punch the wall.

How could this guy, after to many years, still push all his buttons.

He was new Stiles. Better Stiles. That kid screaming for his Mommy and scared by the monsters under his bed was gone gone gone.

And he would not cry. He would call Scott and chat. Or Malia.

He got his smartphone out of his backpack, flicked through his contacts and tipped on a name.

The only person so self-absorbed she wouldn’t notice the way his voice was broken, thin and shaky.

 

 

 

“Hello?”

“Hi Lydia, I was just wondering how – how’s your face? And stuff…”

“Smooth,” Lydia said. She sounded amused.

“But thanks for asking. It’s way better. In fact, I look splendid again.”

“So,” Stiles cleared his throat. His voice was more firm now. “So it just stopped and you’re feeling better?”

“Ya,” Lydia said. She seemed distracted.

“What are you-”

“Just painting my nails.”

“Ah. When exactly was it that you felt better? I mean, did something specific happen or – I don’t know, did you do anything to make it go away?”

“Naa,” Lydia said slowly. “It was right after Stiles left, I think.”

“What?”

“Wait, is this you, Stiles?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh my God. See you at school tomorrow, Lydia.”

 

 

 

Around 7 his dad came home. Stiles heard his car pull into the driveway and then the distinct sound of his father’s footsteps on the porch, in the living room, in the kitchen, in the living room again. He chucked his comic book onto a pile of crumpled English and history homework that was spread out all over his desk.

He ran out of his room and jumped down the first few steps – and then stumbled and almost fell down the rest. That couldn’t be –

No freaking way.

“Look who I just met – Theo, can you believe that, Stiles! I hardly recognized him! Unbelievable how time flies…”

His father squeezed Theo’s shoulder. Theo beamed back at him.

“I still remember Stiles’ tenth birthday, you scored eight goals. Stiles was sulking for the rest of the afternoon, flat out refused to open his presents and told us all to go home.” Sheriff Stilinski was laughing loudly. Theo chuckled politely.

Stiles was silent.

“Are you still playing, Theo?”

“Not really. I skateboard, Sir.”

“Stiles is in the Lacrosse team,” Sheriff Stilinksi began and then seemed to remember that any story about his son’s sports career would be sad and short.

“So tell me, Theo, how’s your mom and dad?”

“Wonderful, Sir. My dad is happy to be back with his old colleagues and my mom got a new kitchen. Couldn’t be better.”

“Good for you. Glad to hear that. Ok, I’ll let you boys catch up.”

“I’m just here to borrow Stiles’ notes. I’ll be quick.”

Sheriff Stilinksi nodded.

“Dinner’s still warm, dad…,” Stiles said. He had only come halfway down the dimly lit stairs, crouching against the wall.

When his dad had vanished in the direction of the kitchen, he slowly rose. His arms and legs felt numb. He heard Theo climb the stairs after him.

“You still take great care of your dad, Stiles,” Theo said.

Stiles didn’t respond. He was staring at the door to his room as if expecting a monster to burst out.

“How can you even be here,” he said hoarsely. “We banished you. How – is this even possible…”

“Why don’t we talk inside…”

Stiles could hear that Theo was smirking.

“Come on. If we stay out here your dad – might _hear_ …”

Stiles slowly walked into his room. He could hear Theo shut the door behind them. Stiles was staring at his bed, silently praying for this to be a different story.

_Please, God, no, please, no, God, please…_

But he knew it was futile.

He was already in the middle of it.

 

 

***

 

 

Scott had asked Derek to check for larger herds outside of Beacon Hills. A welcome pause from Scott’s worried face and Liam’s constant gagging.

And the thrill of pushing his Camaro beyond 100 mph, God.

He should probably stop more frequently to sniff the air and listen to the silence but not now. If there was one thing he missed about hunting Kate, it was being out on the road. As cheesy as that might sound, there was something epic about whipping down empty roads like nothing mattered.

Similar to his last mission, however, this trip was pointless but since it was his alpha’s command – nevertheless, what did it matter where they came from. Because come they would.

And the odds weren’t looking good.

The last time these things had started showing up in Beacon Hills his mother had called a gathering of the Southwestern clans. They are dumber than dangerous, she had said. But so many. They threaten to give away the existence of the supernatural. And if we don’t take care of them this place will be crawling with hunters.

We need to take care of them.

And then, one day, for no discernible reason, it had stopped. Just like that.

Derek had told Scott the whole story and wondered why Stiles hadn’t done that already. Surely he remembered the abomination that had chased him into the forest on a hot July night.

He wouldn’t remember all of it, of course.

For instance that, while running for his life, he had almost come as far as the Hale house. How the thing was only a few feet behind him when Derek rid it of its ugly head. How he had run for another minute until realizing the danger was gone and then collapsing against a tree, eyes wide open in horror and shaking all over.

The sheriff’s boy.

Stiles had always been magically drawn to the woods – a kid who could find trouble in his own front yard. He tumbled into ponds and almost drowned, fell from trees and broke his arm, tried to pat a squirrel and got a vicious bite. Tried to pat it again, got bitten again and ran home crying.

Derek’s lips curled upward in a faint grin.

Stiles really hadn’t changed much since then. Still noisy, awkward, too curious for his own good and incredibly smart. Forgetful, too, apparently.

Otherwise, he might have remembered the fifteen year-old teenager, dark hair and hazel eyes and somewhat shy, who had carried him all the way back to Beacon Hills and put him into the arms of his dad.

 

 

***

 

 

“So it’s really you, isn’t it.”

Stiles was looking at Theo.

He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this was happening, this was really happening.

It was like he was slipping through time, back to the long afternoons behind the tool shed, the endless evenings at Theo’s house.

“How…”

Theo’s pretty face softened into a smile. He touched his fingertips to his cheeks.

“I could have chosen a different vessel, yes, but this one is so – convenient.”

His smile widened.

“Good times, Stiles.”

“ _How_ for Christ’s sake-”

“Alright, alright.” Theo put up his hands and laughed light-heartedly as if Stiles had argued that he awesome and he had to give in because, you know.

Stiles, in contrast, looked like he was going to throw up.

“You remember that year you had that ear infection? The Vanderbelts got a dog, er… your mom died?”

Stiles was just staring at him.

“Brave woman, Stiles. I always thought so. I mean, she was terrified of you. Just imagine – her own son…”

Stiles was trembling. If only he had said yes to Peter, then he could tear Theo’s throat out and rip his face apart. He would come back, of course, but to get the better of him just once, let him feel the pain, let him pay. His body might be strong but nothing would survive Stiles’s hatred if he only – if he could only...

“So you know how she – well. Died. To save you? Because she loved you anyway?”

No respone. Theo took a deep breath.

“I always thought this was _so_ Harry Potter.”

He smirked.

“How could you come back,” Stiles mumbled. Somehow his voice wasn’t working right anymore.

And to hear Theo talk about his mom, God.

And there was nothing he could do against it.

No fucking thing.

“So Mommy dead. Boy alive. End of story. Right?”

He took a step towards Stiles.

“But then you went ahead and died.”

Stiles could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

_Dum dum. Dum dum._

The Nemeton.

Saving his dad.

Stiles was shaking.

“You died and were resurrected, all done properly and according to the rules. And your poor mom’s involuntary sacrifice…”

Theo made a fist with his right hand and then opened it to mimic an explosion.

Then he closed the gap between him and Stiles.

For some reason, Theo’s hands were trembling. He put his fingertips to Stiles’s wrists, touching them lightly, and looked down, fascinated.

“Reset this beautiful body to default setting. Your beautiful… _beautiful_ body, Stiles…”

The slight tremble was now in Theo’s voice as well.

“Stiles,” he breathed, their bodies still not touching.

“Isn’t it funny – how a short-lived and vulnerable creature like you would make my whole body hurt with longing?”

Theo slowly raised his hands.

 

 

 

So this was it. This is how it began.

 

Stiles was staring at the wall behind Theo’s back with an open mouth and blank eyes.

He wished he was dead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Steo. Derek has an epiphany. Lydia gets a pet. More Steo.

That small tremble of your lips you’re trying to hide?

It’s not working. Because I know anyway, you don’t even have to look at me, Stiles.

You would think that I can only feel your hatred but did you know that I can hear your prayers, too?

It’s a little quirk of mine. I’ve been filtering your faint whisper out from billions of voices, made it drip down mutilated bodies, sweep over blown-apart crowds and let it hum across steaming heaps of flesh. Even now, I’m eavesdropping and you’re talking to me when you’re not even talking.

It might be a waste of – power, yes. But it is vital to build up suspense. You’ll see in time.

Because you’re the one, Stiles.

 

 

The chosen one?

 

 

No.

The one who got away.

 

 

 

 

 

“Stiles.”

Theo’s voice was soft.

“Look at me.”

Theo raised his right hand slowly, carefully, and cupped Stiles’s chin in his palm. Stiles was so surprised by the tenderness of the touch that he forgot to not look at him.

“Good.”

Theo’s eyes were hazel but brighter than Derek’s, his features so – pleasant it was ridiculous.

“You know what I came back for, don’t you? Stiles?”

Theo brushed his thumb across Stiles’s cheek.

The warmth of Theo’s hand and the gentleness of his stroke were unbearable but he didn’t dare to move.

Theo frowned and said, “Being in human flesh is exasperating. Being a teenager… so different from a little boy.”

He laughed softly.

“I used to scare you with monsters and cut you with scissors. But this…”

He tilted his head slightly staring into Stiles’s eyes.

“This will be fun in a whole different way.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Scott!,” Derek barked and Scott quickly opened his door.

“Derek, what the hell?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I got that. It’s 10 p.m. man, turn the volume down. I’ve watched you move like a killer without making a single noise.”

Derek smirked, walked over to Scott’s bed and sat down.

“Only when I want to.”

“How did you get into the house?”

“Please.”

Scott took a deep breath.

“What is it? Has Deaton found anything?”

“What do you know about Theo Raeken.”

Derek’s questions never sounded like questions but Scott was used to that.

“Let me guess – you’re telling me I should be cautious about letting him in the pack. Well, you didn’t have to come here just for that – Stiles already gave me a lecture this morning.”

Derek snorted. “Did he. I can imagine that. Vividly.”

He fell silent for a few seconds.

“Do you think he’s right?”

Scott shrugged. He walked over to his computer chair and sat down.

“In general, yes, I think. That would be way to quick, we don’t even know him. He used to be a real brat and Stiles thinks people don’t change.”

“So do I,” Derek said immediately and unnecessarily.

“I – understand. But I think we should give him a chance eventually – not right now maybe but over time.”

Derek was frowning at Scott. As alpha he might shield his emotions from him, lie, plot. Like he himself had been doing at times. But Scott wasn’t like that – he wouldn’t deem it necessary. His utter frankness was one of the reasons Derek approved of him. Trusted him even.

“Don’t you smell it?”

“What? The monsters? Yeah, it’s everywhere but I think I’m getting used too it…”

“No, Theo. Or _on_ Theo. I can’t really tell which.”

Scott looked puzzled.

“Like a stench?”

Derek slowly shook his head.

“More like – I can’t describe it. His scent is so-,” he wrinkled his nose like he was picturing the exact smell, “intrusive. All wrong.”

Scott was staring at him.

“You must have gotten that confused with the rotting pieces of monster. Seriously, I couldn’t smell anything anymore that night.”

Derek hummed and fell into a brooding silence.

“But the next day my senses were back on track again and he just smelled like a guy turned wolf. Nothing weird about that. And Stiles just doesn’t like Theo. He was his best friend in first grade.”

Derek nodded. He knew that before, of course, because when he had picked up Stiles from the ground that afternoon a lifetime ago there had been a faint smell on the boy that he distinctly remembered, even now.

The boy had smelled like young green leaves and forest ground and cinnamon and something – else that smelled foreign on him. It didn’t fit the sweetness of his own scent.

Derek had buried his nose in his sweater, not comprehending how the scent of someone else on him could be so fresh when he had clearly been on his own for the past half hour.

While one riddle was solved now the whole thing made no more sense than it had years ago  – Stiles had smelled like Theo and strangely so.

Like Theo had been hugging him seconds before that monster had tried to tear him apart.

Derek’s eyes darkened like he had stepped into a shadow.

“When these things came to Beacon Hills seven years ago, I picked up Theo’s scent close to them in the woods without even knowing whose it was,” he growled, “It came back to me when we met him yesterday.”

Stiles was the particular detail of the story that Derek would keep from Scott. It would certainly endanger the pack if Scott found out Stiles had known about the supernatural in Beacon Hills before he had been turned. Had learned about it, even, while he was already best friends with him.

Or had he?

It was more likely that Stiles had just convinced himself that he was having a nightmare. The story Derek had told Sheriff Stilinski was, after all this. That he had found the boy sound asleep under a tree.

He must’ve run out into the woods again to play and gotten lost, Sheriff Stilinski had said. And then, That boy! What should I do with him, put him on a leash?

And then he had thanked Derek.

Mr. Hale – Derek, right? – I’m glad that you found him before anything bad happened to him. He’s got his head up in the clouds most of the time but he’s a precious boy.

“So?,” Scott said, startling Derek out of his thoughts.

Human thoughts. Too many.

Derek growled with disgust.

“So, I think Theo is connected to these things showing up. He’s the red thread and the way this guy has me on edge way more than the monsters – it tells me he’s the bigger danger.”

Scott was looking at him as if he had told him he appreciated hand-painted Victorian chamber pots.

“Derek, what the hell are you talking about? There was and is nothing weird about Theo. Shouldn’t I be able to pick up the danger faster than you?”

“Well, yes…,” Derek said slowly, thinking. “Yes, you’re the alpha. But you’re also more human than me. You trust your thoughts more than your senses. I’m not like that.”

“Ok, right. But still, come on, Derek. Maybe you’re just getting a little paranoid?”

He sounded uncertain and Derek knew it was because Scott really trusted his, Derek’s, judgement and it surprised him. He really and truly was a member of the pack.

And he had to be satisfied with Scott’s answer.

The alpha’s verdict was law.

 

 

***

 

 

Lydia was trying to squeeze through the kitchen door, two giant shopping bags in hands.

“You need help, honey?,” her mum said frowning.

“Naah, I’m alright, thanks.” There was a metallic clutter as her bags scraped the door frame.

“And how’s your rash?”

“Mh? Oh, better, the lotion’s really helping. I’ll be upstairs.”

“Please bring down your dirty dishes, I think they’re starting to smell.”

“Yeah, in a few minutes!,” Lydia yelled from the first floor.

Her mother sighed.

“I really wish she’d stop eating in her room,” she muttered and picked up her cup of tea when she heard Lydia’s door slam shut.

Lydia let the bags drop to the floor with a loud _clonk_ and immediately dove into the bigger one.

“Sorry baby, I  know I should’ve been home sooner but there was so much traffic,” she said, her voice muffled by the plastic.

She reappeared, pulling something out of the bag and shoving it behind her as if to hide it, unsuccessfully so because her body barely covered a third of it.

It was a cage.

“Paws, Mommy has a present for you, darling.”

The cage was fairly big and looked heavy, with a pink plastic tub. Lydia began dragging it across the bedroom floor.

“What do you think?”

She was looking across the room, face lit up in anticipation.

Sitting on her bed, its tiny body half sunk into the fluffy comforter, was a bunny.

At least, it must have been one at some point in the near or distant past.

Its nostrils were oddly widened, the flesh around them bare. The were bloody growths eating away at its cute ears and the white bone of its skull and skeleton was showing in places. The name Lydia had given it was awfully appropriate because the proportions of its legs were all wrong.

It looked like the product of a crazy genetic engineer who only had a rough idea of what bunnies look like.

“It’s your new home,” Lydia sang, beaming at the little animal that was staring back at her without a sense of comprehension in its eyes.

Maybe because in order to see you need eyeballs, the greatest part of which had dripped out of its sockets and was presently sticking to its mangy fur.

Lydia set down the cage next to her bed.

The bunny just sat there, breathing.

“Mommy couldn’t get a bigger one, so sorry about that. When I asked for it, the man in the shop looked at me like I was crazy.” Lydia pursed her lips to throw her pet a kiss.

“I’ll be with you right away, darling, just have to set your new home up.”

In response, Paws trembled, opened its mouth and spit out a few chunks of what looked suspiciously like semi-digested bits of internal organs.

“Oops,” Lydia said happily, “Mommy’s going to clean that up in just a minute, baby…”

Paws just kept breathing.

 

 

***

 

 

Derek was crossing the gates of Eichen House, walking quickly in the direction of the parking lot. God, he hated that – institution. The manner they caged people, the politics of surveillance in there – sometimes, if he didn’t know any better, he would think this was a crossgenre horror film instead of real life.

Gothic meets sci-fi.

Or gore, considering recent events.

And the prequel had majorly sucked so he doubted this part would be any better.

He fished the keys out of his tight jeans.

But at least they were open to visitors 24/7, right?

If confronted with a mixture of bribe money and supernatural aggression, that is.

However, whatever they had done to Peter, _well_ wasn’t exactly the word he would apply to describe his mental health state now. Derek gritted his teeth.

He had counted on Peter remembering more than he who had been a self-absorbed teenager. On Peter giving him a hint at least, even if an involuntary one. But as always, counting on Peter’s help was a dead end.

But the missing link.

It couldn’t be helped.

Derek sighed, letting his car keys rotate around his index finger.

He had to figure out the puzzle with his human side if he didn’t want his wolf to hunt the woods in vain for the next few weeks. Lose precious time.

Somehow he felt like the answer was there already, just had to be read, but, ironically, the only person who could do that was flat out denying his assistance.

And for the first time ever, Derek couldn’t make him.

So it had to be bad.

And maybe Stiles already knew that.

Derek slid into his Camaro and pulled the driver’s door shut, blinking with recognition as the words were hovering in his mind.

He knew.

Stiles already knew.

 

 

***

 

 

Theo used to play with him, yes. But it had been a different kind of game.

Stiles was in shock but it wasn’t the same kind of shock like when he had been a ten year-old boy and Theo had let a rotten corpse crawl onto his bed at night or pinned him to the wall and burned him with a lighter, slowly, for an hour until Stiles would have been screaming with pain, only Theo had taken away his voice.

Because that’s what he could do, Theo. Only for this hour, he had said.

Isn’t that what people say – you don’t just grow up, you mature?

Once Theo had torn away thick strands of hair from his crane with full hands and then let it grow back again.

A spoiled kid’s game.

Stiles always wore his hair as short as possible after that.

But he had known from the way Theo had looked at him this morning that something had changed. This was going to be a different story after all.

Just when he had been so certain that he wouldn’t have to think about this guy anymore ever he appeared out of nowhere and changed the rules.

But maybe it had been him, Stiles, after all.

Who had changed the rules first when he had breathed new life into the Nemeton together with Scott and Allison.

Theo was still clutching Stiles’s chin and it started feeling like the death grip Stiles had been expecting. His fingers weren’t soft against Stiles’s skin anymore but hard and strained.

Like he was holding back.

“Stiles.”

There it was again, this tremble with an edge of – frustration?

“How’s your ankle, Stiles.”

The warmth of Theo’s breath against his left ear made Stiles’s stomach flip.

“I twisted it slowly to see if you still make the same kind of face. Gently, so your bone wouldn’t break.”

His grip around Stiles’s wrist had tightened. Stiles could feel Theo’s fingers grow into claws.

“And you do, you still do. Even when you can’t wake up.”

Theo’s claws slowly dug into his arm slitting open his skin. But no deeper than that. Stiles almost jumped when the pain shot through his body. It was like he had snapped back from a trance. He winced and tried to pull his hand back and Theo –

He was staring at his face, a weird smile frozen on his lips.

The sick freak.

Stiles felt like he was slowly returning to himself. Had taken him long enough.

“Did you just come here for that?,” he finally managed to say.

And then, “Lucifer.”

“Oho. We’re being frank now, aren’t we,” Theo said. “But that name is so fifteenth century.”

“Fuck you. You’re nothing compared to the Nogitsune,” Stiles tried, his voice raspy and broken. He knew this kind of boldness was infinitely stupid but that was the way his courage worked, apparently.

Alert – scared – shocked – paralized, and now, downright suicidal.

It was obvious he had said the wrong thing. Theo had let go of Stiles’s hand. He looked angered all of a sudden.

“That filth,” he spit out. “No punishment will ever be enough. He should have known better than touching _you_ , you of all creatures, Stiles. He thought I was gone for good and oh, he is regretting it. These lesser spirits – they don’t even know I can’t die.”

Theo moved suddenly, pushing Stiles against the wall with his flat hand. His face looked strained now, his eyes were burning yellow.

If you didn’t know there was a difference you might confuse them with the eyes of a werewolf before his first kill, the shade was almost identical, but not quite.

“It wasn’t easy to hold back, Stiles, and I’m sick of it. This place is dull enough already.”

Theo seemed to grow in front of his eyes and the horror of the sight paralized Stiles despite his familiarity with it.

It’s just something you never get used to, I guess.

Lucifer demonstrating his power.

All of a sudden, the room seemed to shrink, like all the space was being sucked out of it. Filled up with Theo’s terrible beauty.

Stiles pressed his eyes shut. He knew the darkness around them was crawling with things.

He could hear them wheeze and click, a sound he thought he would never hear again except in nightmares.

He was tensing his muscles, preparing his body for the pain.

But then something wet touched his lips and his eyes flew open in surprise. Theo’s mouth was covering his and his kiss was greedy, almost violent.

Stiles tried to push him away but Theo had him pinned against the wall with his whole body. His hands were slipping under Stiles’s t-shirt, clutching his chest, digging into his skin.

Stiles was squirming, desperately trying to get away from the sharp claws.

He couldn’t breathe.

But the pain was bearable. For now.

Theo had done far worse to him. He wouldn’t kill him of course. Even if Theo punctuated his lungs, he would just fix him up again and continue. Oops, my bad. Here you go Stiles.

Good times.

“Boys?”

Theo froze. His chest was heaving, pushing into his own, and, oh God. Stiles felt something hard pressing against his thigh. He closed his eyes and tried to mentally disconnect from his body. He’d almost perfected the craft when he was a kid.

“Do you guys want to watch the game with me?,” Sheriff Stilinksi said. His voice sounded like he was right outside. They hadn’t even heard him come up the stairs.

Theo had backed away a few inches, staring at Stiles’s face, eyes still yellow. He looked furious about the interruption.

“Er, sorry dad,” Stiles said, trying to sound calm but he knew his voice wasn’t perfectly firm. He cleared his throat.

“Theo’s about to leave and I still have to read a chapter for History.”

Theo had stepped back. For a moment he just stood there like he couldn’t quite tear himself away.

Like he hated leaving business unfinished.

His tight, dark blue t-shirt was sticking to his sweaty chest and his skinny jeans clearly revealed to Stiles that he had been right in assuming that Theo was pretty agitated.

Stiles’s quickly turned his head away, still unable to wrap his head around the whole situation, and as if that had been his cue Theo turned around and stormed out of the room, all but knocking down the Sheriff.

“Did you guys fight?,” he said puzzled when the front door opened and shut with a _bang_.

Stiles shook his head.

“That is – yes, he’s er… I guess he’s – really into Malia. He’s – er pretty upset, yeah…”

Sheriff Stilinksi nodded, saying “Ah.” And then, “Strange, Theo used to be such a gentle boy, not at all short-tempered… but I guess – being a teenager is really tough. Right?”

Stiles gave him a faint smile that his dad couldn’t see of course because when Theo had stormed out, he had quickly turned his back to the door.

He was praying that his chest wasn’t covered in blood. Or the floor.

God, the floor.

And his skin was burning but he didn’t dare to look down. Not yet.

“Uh dad… I’m really tired, so…”

“Alright. I’m not hovering. Good night, son.”

He pulled the door shut.

Stiles immediately sank to his knees, resting his head against the wall, his mind completely blank.

He was exhausted. Shaky.

Like he’d survived a plane crash.

And there was more to come.

But he wouldn’t think about that now.

He closed his eyes, struggling to control his breathing. Not to hyperventilate.

Just breathe in.

Hold your breath for three seconds.

Out.

Hold your breath again, this time for five seconds. Then repeat.

Try it.

It helps.

You can’t breathe away the real danger though.

The pain, the monsters.

Doom impending.

But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Stiles feels like he’s in pieces but he slowly picks himself up. Like he’s his own marionette player.

He wonders how Derek’s doing it.

Get up every morning.

But unlike Derek, Stiles still has his dad.

He raises his head and slowly walks to the bathroom.

Pretending that being alive is all that matters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steo at school. Malia loves her cheeseburger. Derek joins them for a chat.

So he sorted out his priorities, yes.

Sleep, eat, go to school, take showers. Just act normal.

Smell emotionally stable.

Switch off everything even remotely related to feelings.

He did it before, he’ll do it again.

Only, when Stiles entered the classroom that morning, there had clearly been a change in the seating arrangements because Theo was slouching in the chair next to his as if it was his living room.

Stiles’s face darkened.

Theo’s face, of course, lit up when he spotted Stiles.

He smiled brightly and then waved – actually _waved_ at him.

Stiles suddenly understood why Ramsay Bolton would enjoy flaying people. And didn’t Theo sound slightly like Theon?

It was a thought he would hold on to. Maybe visualize.

He let himself fall into his chair trying hard to just ignore Theo. Don’t acknowledge him, don’t even look at him, just – he doesn’t exist.

But he could still see him turn in his chair out of the corner of his eye.

And of course Theo was beaming at him. The smug bastard.

So, alright, you looked.

But it won’t happen again. Just focus.

Don’t think about his claws, or teeth or strength or speed.

Pretend like this little smile is not meant for you.

And especially don’t picture what he might do to you later.

Burn you, skin you, break your bones.

Because it won’t matter.

It’s not like there’s anything you can do.

 

 

 

“Yo, Stiles,” Theo whispered. They were ten minutes into the first lesson, history.

Stiles shifted in his chair. He had somehow hoped that Theo would give him at least an hour.

It’s ok, just ignore him.

Stiles was concentrating on the chapter he should have prepared for today. The letters were dancing in front of his eyes. He hadn’t slept that night and it started to show.

He felt like shit.

“You alright, Stiles? You look sorta – out of it.”

Stiles shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to be able to clench his fists.

Don’t listen… just ignore him.

“I can see that,” Theo said in a low voice that sounded eerily close to his ears.

Man. Not that again.

Stiles kept his eyes glued to the page while Mr. Yukimura was delivering one of his monologues. He kept losing track though. Like his brain couldn’t string together what he was hearing. The words were just floating around in his head. Refusing to make sense. Mass murder, war, reservations.

Genocide.

He didn’t need wolf senses to know that Theo shifted a little in his chair. Maybe curled his lips into a satisfied smirk.

Stiles couldn’t help it.

“Fucking bastard,” he whispered.

Theo tilted his head to one side.

“I’m not responsible for all the shit you do up here,” he said but Stiles could hear that he was smiling.

“Mr. Raeken. Is there anything you’d like to share with us?”

Mr. Yukimura was looking at him sternly and Theo raised his hands in a typical – well, _Theo_ gesture.

“Sorry, Mr. Yukimura. Won’t happen again.”

He smiled at him and Mr. Yukimura immediately and visibly softened.

“Well… if you could read out chapter ten to us, Mr. Raeken.”

Unbelievable.

He probably had excellent grades, too.

As if the king of freaking hell planned on attending a good college.

But Stiles had forgotten how much Theo loved to play.

The rest of the hour was filled with Theo’s smooth, pleasant voice, accentuating all the right words, pausing in all the right places.

How could it be that no one was suspicious of a person that perfect?

There’s always a catch, is the thing.

But apparently Scott had never watched a movie or read a book because when class was finally over he came up to Stiles’s desk and said,

“Man, if Theo hadn’t distracted the old man – I’d just passed Kira a note and I think he saw it.”

“A _note_?” Stiles blinked a few times. “How old are you, ten?”

Then Stiles realized what he had said.

“The only one acting like you’re ten are you. Stiles,” Theo said in a low voice. Smiling at him.

He was leaning against his desk looking like he just fell out of a freaking movie. Hands tugged into the pockets of his leather jacket, white shirt tight over his chest and abs and that nonchalant frown on his face. Like James Dean. Girls left and right were shooting him glances. God.

Was he the only sane person here?

Scott was laughing at Stiles’s upset expression and slapped him over the shoulder. Kira looked as if she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to smile. She seemed to realize that Stiles wasn’t looking so good.

“Ok, I’m off to AP Chemistry,” Theo said. He put his hand on Stiles’s shoulder where it lingered for two or three seconds. Stiles’s stomach flipped. Luckily, Scott was concentrating on not kissing Kira who said, clearly impressed, “AP Chemistry?”

“See you at lunch Theo,” Scott said.

Stiles took a deep breath.

Six hours left. And then what?

It could only get worse after school. At least no one would be around to see his face slip or hear him scream.

He threw a glance at Scott who was chatting with Kira and Danny and wondered for what felt like the thousandth time if he should tell him.

But Scott was finally almost himself again. After Allison’s death, it had seemed like that would never happen again.

Stiles shook his head and jumped to his feet.

There was no way in hell that he would tell Scott.

This was between him and Theo.

He would make sure of that.

 

 

 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Malia was looking at Stiles’s cheeseburger. It sat on a plate in front of him, untouched.

“Not particularly, no,” Stiles said. It was true. He’d been feeling mostly nauseous lately.

“Are you alright?” Liam was looking at him, frowning.

“You smell – anxious.”

“He always smells like that,” Malia said.

“Ok, could you guys all just – ok? I’m fine.”

Stiles almost swiped his coke off the table when he got up. He threw his backpack over his right shoulder and turned around.

He knew Theo was watching him leave. He could feel his eyes burning into his back.

But he wouldn’t follow him, not now. There was enough time later and frankly, Stiles couldn’t bear the tension anymore.

Whatever it was, he wanted to get it over with.

Or maybe he should just go home. Lock himself in his room and pretend nothing evil could get in there. It had never worked but still.

Worth a try.

Right now, it was the best plan he had.

He chuckled and pushed the cafeteria door out of his way.

Pathetic.

 

 

“What’s up with him?,” Mason said and Liam shrugged. Both were still looking at Stiles’s empty seat.

“He looked really upset. Maybe he got a bad grade,” Liam suggested. Then he threw Malia a glance. It was obvious that he thought it might have something to do with her but didn’t dare voice his thoughts. Malia was not only stronger than him but also a lot scarier.

Luckily for him, she was completely absorbed in finishing Stiles's burger but Mason nodded yes to Liam. Yes, probably trouble with the lady. And then he said, “Lydia? What’s that on your arm?”

“Mh?” Lydia blinked, bottle of water in her right hand hovering in mid-air.

“There’s something on your arm.”

Lydia took a sip and screwed the lid back on. Then she looked down at her wrist. The sleeve of her silk blouse had slipped a little and revealed a patch of flaming red skin.

“Oh that? That’s nothing.”

She shook her arm to make the sleeve slide down again and cover it up.

“Didn’t look like nothing,” Mason said. Tentatively. He wasn’t quite sure where to put Lydia, yet. She was clearly hiding something. But that might also be his own utter failure at understanding women since he had no interest in them whatsoever. None at all.

Then again, Liam did, and yet, he was even clumsier with them.

No wonder Stiles had looked so out of it.

“Looked like what you had on your face, only now it’s on your arm,” Mason added.

Lydia threw him a hostile glance that clearly said, Thin ice. Very thin ice.

“It’s just a little rash. I’m allergic to rabbit hair and I got a bunny last week.”

She threw her napkin onto her plate and her long red hair back over her shoulder. Conversation over.

When Lydia had walked away, Mason turned to Liam.

“She’s still acting strange. Shouldn’t we talk to Scott about this?”

They both looked over at Scott who was feeding Kira French fries.

“I think he’s busy,” Liam said.

“Then – should we investigate this? I mean do research and maybe go through her room and stuff?”

He looked far too excited by this idea. Somehow Liam felt like the whole interfering-gets-you-killed thing hadn’t quite gotten through to Mason, yet. He still thought everything about the supernatural was just fascinating.

“I don’t know, man…,” Liam muttered. “Got a bunch of homework. I got an F on my last math exam… my mum’s gonna kill me if I don’t study…”

Mason opened his mouth to give him one of his speeches, about how he had freaking superpowers, and Liam quickly said, “Alright, alright,” just to shut him up.

Really, suggesting to go through Lydia’s room – sometimes he thought that Mason must have a death wish. And then, above all, Lydia was a _banshee_. It was hard to tell what he found more unsettling, her aloof insanity or Malia’s affinity for physical violence.

“Mason?”

But his friend was long gone. He was staring into space, eyes gleaming, a dreamy smile on his face.

Oh no. Alright. So this was definitely happening.

Liam picked up his own tray, then Mason’s, then gave his friend a nudge with his elbow.

“But I have Lacrosse practice first. Whatever plan you’re making up right now has to wait until after, alright?”

“Alright,” Mason said, beaming. He shouldered his backpack and hurried after his friend.

This was going to be good.

 

 

 

Wow, that went down the drain really fast.

Mason was still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.

So there was Derek, just the most handsome man he had ever seen in his whole life. He was furious, obviously, and was pinning Liam to the wall, flashing these neon blue eyes at him and Mason tried hard to keep his mind out of the gutter.

Help his friend.

Even though _he_ would not want help. Being pushed into the wall by Derek Hale was just so… oh, my.

Derek’s head snapped to the right, his eyes now resting on him, Mason.

“You’re apparently not getting how serious this is.”

“No,” Liam gagged because Derek hadn’t lightened the grip on his shirt. “He thinks you’re hot.”

“Liam!,” Mason said and Derek said, “What?” and then he grimaced. “Ugh. Teenagers. Can’t you keep it in your pants for five seconds?”

Mason was looking down at his feet. Liam threw him an apologetic glance.

“Guys, _focus_! _Where_ is Stiles?”

“I already told you,” Liam said, his voice growing louder with every second.

Uh oh. Mason didn’t need wolf senses to know that his best friend was about to lose it. God, Derek would tear him into tiny little shreds. He wondered if there was time to call Scott.

But then Derek let go of him and said, “Relax. I’m in your pack, remember?”

“Ha,” said Mason. So that’s how you treat pack?

Derek ignored him.

“And I thought Stiles was with Scott but I saw Scott in the cafeteria, no Stiles to be seen – so, where is he? Aren’t you supposed to be eating together?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be less of a creep,” Liam muttered and Derek shot him a menacing glare.

“You’re all helpless little puppies.” He spit out the words like wanting to get rid of a bitter taste. “Of course I’m gonna watch out for you. I’m the only grown-up here.”

Mason thought that Derek suddenly looked tired.

“So,” he said through gritted teeth, “please?”

“Stiles was upset because we kept bugging him with questions – because he like – looked really down. Out of it, kinda. So he got up and left. No idea where he is,” Mason finally explained.

Derek blinked.

“He left and no one followed him? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Why? He can go wherever he wants,” Liam said but there was an edge of insecurity to his voice. “I mean, if Scott’s ok with it,” he quickly added.

Ok, they really did it this time. Derek looked furious.

“Have you idiots – _any_ – idea what we’re dealing with here? There’s herds of monsters  _flooding_ Beacon Hills from all corners of the earth and you’re all acting like you’re on a field trip.”

“But Scott-,” Liam, unwisely, started to protest.

He was cut off by a low growl.

“Scott needs to listen to me now.”

 

 

 ***

 

 

He’d had half a mind to jump into his Jeep and drive until his tank was empty, but then figured, what the hell. The only important thing was to keep up the act as long as possible.

So he had calmed down again. Thrown some water into his face, taken a few deep breaths.

Lacrosse practice would just be him watching the others play. His foot was still hurting, but then, that wasn’t that much of a difference to before this whole mess.

And it would take his mind off Theo at least.

Stiles rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks trying to look less – zombified.

He turned around and yeah.

Theo had this knack for timing.

Also, he could suppress his reflection in the mirror if he wanted to. Sneaky son of a bitch.

The look he gave Stiles almost made his legs go limp.

He was smiling softly but for some reason that was the most terrifying thing Stiles could have imagined. Why couldn’t Theo send that thing from The Ring again to haunt him. He could at least have screamed properly and felt better afterwards.

“I wanted to wait with this – prepare you… you know… Stiles. But seems like – I just can’t. This body is so weak.”

He quickly stepped up to him. Stiles took a step back and ended up with his back pressed painfully into the sink and Theo, well.

Way too close. Again.

And again he wasn’t touching him, not quite. It was like – Theo would lose control the moment his body touched Stiles’s and Theo wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

He could not lose control. Even _he_ wouldn’t be able to put Stiles back together.

 

 

 

Stiles was looking at Theo, waiting.

This was it, right?

He wondered if Theo had sealed the room so no one could get in. Disturb them. But no, that couldn’t be. He loved the game too much for that.

Then Theo grabbed his hips and jerked him forward. Pressed their bodies together finally. Covered Stiles’s mouth, for a second only.

Then he was gone.

There was a low thump.

Stiles’s heart was racing, pounding against his ribcage.

It took him a few seconds to take in the whole scene.

Derek was standing in front of him, panting. Eyes blue but his features were still human. Apparently, he had simply picked Theo up and thrown him against the wall. Theo had collapsed on the tiled floor where he was slowly coming to again.

“Derek,” Stiles finally managed, breathless. “Derek, run.”

Derek just stared at him, puzzled.

“Run, you moron!!!” Stiles was screaming now and Derek inadvertently took a step back.

But it was too late.

“So… Derek.”

Stiles closed his eyes in horror.

Theo slowly got to his feet. There was a thin thread of blood climbing down his lips and chin and there was blood pooling in his neck. Stiles could see it getting soaked up by his white shirt. He must have hit his head hard. Derek could have cracked his skull, werewolf healing powers notwithstanding.

He didn’t, of course, and Derek looked like he was still trying to figure out why.

Wait a second.

He had obviously meant to take Theo apart with a single blow. Snap his neck, crush him without caring about consequences. Or had he known that Theo was stronger than him, stronger than Scott even?

It didn’t matter.

Stiles suddenly felt like throwing up.

Derek was dead dead dead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anticlimactic showdown. Liam, Mason and Malia meet Paws. Theo can't stop bleeding. Stiles gets to fall asleep, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for kudos and comments - you guys make me want to keep writing <3

So, Theo has picked himself up again. He looks calm but that might just be an act. Part of his little game. It’s really hard to tell. Probably though. You don’t just crack the Devil’s skull and get away with it.

Derek doesn’t know the details of course.

So he’s just standing there not getting why the hell Stiles is so afraid. Not getting why Theo was _kissing_ Stiles when he, Derek, was certain, he was attacking him. The image had only really gotten through to his brain when Theo was already sliding down the wall, down a long dark streak of blood on the tiles.

Run, is what you want to say now, probably.

Run and hide. Don’t ever show your face in Beacon Hills again.

You couldn’t even make it against the berserkers. Against Peter or Kate.

This though.

You have no idea what this is.

Stiles wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, shake Derek, push him out of the men’s room, stall Theo, buy him time.

But he knew better than that.

Derek was already dead.

The question was just how much Theo would let him suffer.

 

 

Stiles was shaking.

“Please, Theo,” he breathed. “Let him go, please.”

His vision was blurry. The whiteness of Theo’s shirt bit into his eyes, the red spots and streaks made him nauseous.

“What are you talking about?,” Theo said with a light laugh. He took a few steps towards him, still swaying slightly from having been knocked into the wall hard.

“Derek… you’re in Scott’s pack?”

Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s face. He was trying to get a grip on the rim of the sink behind him, trying hard not to throw up.

“You’re pretty protective of Stiles – given that you just tried to kill me.”

There was no answer from Derek.

Why didn’t he answer?

Oh God.

Had Theo already sealed his mouth shut?

Stiles raised his head trying to zoom in on Derek but the whole scene kept slipping out of focus.

Panic, stage four of six.

“You apparently misunderstood something, buddy.”

Thin fingers suddenly slipped into Stiles’s, his hand was tugged away from the ceramic.

“That’s how it is,” Theo simply said.

What the hell.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” he added as if he was reading his mind.

Please no. He couldn’t do that, right, read his mind? Even if he could, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t spoil the game like that.

“I wouldn’t hurt your pack.”

And then Stiles heard a low menacing growl. There was words in there, too, that he could just barely make out.

“Stop screwing with me.”

“Oh please,” Theo said. “Who would want that.”

He squeezed Stiles’s hand.

“You’re scaring the crap out of him,” Derek now said. “An idiot could see that.” He had come closer, slid into focus. Stiles could see him clearly now and Derek’s piercing blue eyes were looking into his own. Worried? Searching for an answer.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business. Right, Stiles?”

Now they were both looking at him. Waiting. Derek apparently wanted to know what the hell was up with Theo. And Theo had just given him an ultimatum.

A way out.

Ok, so he did have agency here. Like a dog on a leash. This tree or that tree? Pick for yourself. There’s a good boy.

“Stiles,” Theo said.

So this or Derek’s dead. More than dead actually.

Come on, Stiles. Get a grip.

It’s not like you really have to think about it.

“Er…,” he started hoarsely. “Sorry I – I didn’t tell you guys.”

He half-heartedly raised the hand that was still entangled with Theo’s and tried to put a smile on his lips. He knew it came out just as mortified as he’d intended.

“We – we used to be – a _thing_ …”

Saying it felt strange, like this was not his voice, but it had to be because his mouth was moving and Derek’s eyes were widening in surprise. Disbelief even, maybe.

Usually he could tell when Stiles was lying but there was so much going on right now. Derek probably didn’t know him well enough to distinguish the fear of Theo from the fear of being caught _with_ Theo, right?

So, to make absolutely sure Derek kept his nose out of this, he added, “These monsters just freak me out, I’m constantly on edge because of that so – sorry, I should’ve told you guys. I really meant to. But can you please keep it to yourself, for now? I want to tell – er… Scott and Malia when I – when I’m – when I feel ready.”

God, that was the fakest and most awful delivery imaginable.

Stiles was pretty sure Derek wouldn’t buy it but at least Theo was satisfied. And maybe Derek got the warning.

Shut up and walk away.

“You’re lying,” Derek said.

Oh for God’s sake, Derek.

Don’t you ever know what’s good for you?

Stiles was about to make a suicide leap, either kiss Theo or scream at Derek to get lost – the second one was clearly his favorite – when the door was pushed open. Stiles immediately let go of Theo’s hand which provoked a smirk from Theo.

“There you a- _what the freakin’ hell_?!” Scott stopped short when he saw the blood on the wall and floor. Liam and Mason were right behind him.

Well, that was just perfect.

“What on _earth_ happened here? What is _wrong_ with you guys?!”

“A little misunderstanding,” Theo said, smiling. “Uhm, Derek here obviously has some anger management issues.”

“ _What_?,” Derek said staring at Theo. It was obvious that even he couldn’t believe how quickly Theo’s aura could shift between menacing and happy-go-lucky.

“Stiles, you alright? Practice started ten minutes ago,” Scott now said.

“I know… sorry, guys…,” Stiles muttered.

“Theo, did you know that you’re bleeding?,” Mason said. “Like – a lot?”

Theo put his hand to the back of his head. It came back dripping with blood.

“Right. I should take care of this, I guess.”

“Shouldn’t it close up by itself?,” Liam dared to say and blushed when Theo looked at him.

“It already did but I guess it just bled a lot. I’m gonna go change.”

“You can use the showers in the locker room. Everyone’s out on the field already.”

There was a pause.

Then Theo shrugged and said, “Ok, see you around guys. Derek, no hard feelings, right?”

He raised his eyebrows.

Derek was staring back at him as if Theo was a madman. Which was definitely not so far from the truth.

Stiles knew that right now, Derek was assessing just how dangerous Theo really was and he could tell from the way Derek nodded curtly and narrowed his eyes that he had decided he had underestimated Theo.

It was the way Theo had just let himself get beat up without letting his mask slip even an inch. The way he slapped Scott across the shoulder now and nodded to Liam and Mason. The way he looked back at Stiles with an impenetrable gaze. He even gave Derek one of his little smiles.

Derek didn’t even blink and although Stiles desperately wanted everyone he cared about out of it, he felt a deep gratitude towards Derek.

He gave him a nod and a brief smile.

Derek rolled his eyes and shook his head mumbling something that sounded a lot like ‘Teenagers’.

“Derek can I talk to you for a second?,” Scott said and Derek nodded. They lagged behind while the others left.

 

“Derek, you can’t just do that,” Scott said.

“Do what?”

He was already sick of this conversation.

“You’re my beta and in my pack we don’t just go around beating the hell out of guys we don’t like.”

Derek grimaced.

“First of all, I didn’t beat the hell out of him. _That_ would have looked different. And, secondly – he could have defended himself.”

“Derek, come on, you gotta see that I have a point here.”

Derek hesitated for a second.

“I do. But I rest my case. Theo’s not right.”

Scott shook his head.

“You’re imagining this, buddy. He’s a nice guy and he’s getting along really well with all of us.”

“What about Stiles.”

“Stiles – yeah, ok. But he’s overly paranoid as well. Come to think of it, you guys are both crazy in this respect.”

“Scott,” Derek started. Ok. Last try. “Can’t you see that Stiles is terrified of Theo?”

Scott looked puzzled.

“He – he’s been more anxious lately, yeah…”

“Because of Theo. There’s something going on between the two, Scott, and it’s your responsibility to protect Stiles.”

Scott nodded slowly.

“Alright. If you’re so dead set on Theo being a bad guy I guess – I guess I should look into that.”

Derek nodded.

“Ok, but do me a favor, alright? Stop being so violent. That’s not how I wanna do things.”

Derek grimaced but Scott was looking at the blood-smeared tiles.

“Man, we gotta clean up this mess.”

 

 

Five minutes later, Derek was walking across the parking lot. He’d left his Camaro parked in a side street because even teachers as slow as the ones at Beacon Hills High might eventually notice an expensive sports car pulling into the school parking lot every day.

Not that he _was_ there every day. But, hypothetically.

So Stiles and Theo.

He let out a snorting laugh.

Please… not that he’d be too surprised about Stiles coming out of the closet one of these days. Or that he’d care in any way. But if what he had sensed back there had been sexual tension he might as well just shoot himself because apparently his wolf was broken beyond repair.

Of course it couldn’t be denied that Theo had a curious fixation on Stiles. But Derek couldn’t shake the feeling that plotting was one of Theo’s favorite things. He didn’t even know how he knew that. He just did. Maybe because he was not as good a person as Scott, or innocent like Liam and Mason.

Or Erica and Boyd.

And Isaac.

Great. That thought again.

As if he’d needed anything to further deepen his general feeling of self-loathing.

He’d spectacularly failed as an alpha, yeah.

Maybe, and he would never stop hating himself for that.

But this he wouldn’t screw up.

Derek took the handbrake off and gracefully slid out from the row of parked cars.

As always, Scott was half right. Violence might be pointless now.

Some other day, though.

“We’ll see about that,” Derek growled and floored the gas pedal.

And why was that ridiculous word stuck in his head again?

Something like Fa- or, maybe, Pa-

 

 

“Pawniel,” Lydia said. “But I call him Paws.”

“That’s er – cute name,” Mason said. They were crowding in Lydia’s room. Malia was going to borrow one of her dresses for a girls’ night out – she really only owned shorts and t-shirts, nothing fancy – and Mason and Liam had just tagged along after practice. Being pack really had advantages.

Major advantages.

Malia had started stripping and rummaging through Lydia’s wardrobe as soon as Lydia had closed the door behind them and Liam tried hard not to stare at her boobs. Shouldn’t she be wearing a bra, anyway? Most girls did, right? He blinked. What if – what if everything else he had ever heard about women had been a lie?

“Lydia, your room smells weird,” Malia said. And then, “Hey, stop staring at my nipples, you little creep!” She slapped Liam across the forehead and, because she was Malia, his head hit the wall with a low _thud_.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. His face was slowly turning purple because she was standing right in front of him now – still very much naked – and everywhere he looked was just skin or boobs. Desperate, he just closed his eyes.

“Malia, could you not change in here? You’re making Liam uncomfortable,” Mason said. “So, where is Par – Parn-”

“ _Paws_ ,” Lydia said.

“Right. Paws. Where is he?”

“Yeah, I wanna see it, too.” Malia had donned one of Lydia’s silk tops, a dark green one. She looked smashing.

“I’m not sure, Malia,” Lydia started. “You talk a little too much about how good rabbit tastes.”

“Oh, come on. I would never eat your pet. That would be so rude.”

Lydia looked at her for a few seconds, then she nodded.

“Alright. Ok, fine. I trust you with him. But be careful – he’s so cute, you’ll just want to hug him and cuddle him and eat him out.”

 

***

 

The locker room was lying in semidarkness.

It was empty except for Theo who was hanging over one of the sinks.

He was clutching the back of his head, staring at the blood that came running down his cheeks and was steadily dropping onto the dirty white ceramic. Disappearing into the drain, netting the sink with thin red lines on its way down.

When he put down his hand, held it up in front of his face, it looked like he’d dipped it into a fresh corpse. The sight made his stomach tingle pleasantly.

But this was not the time, not the place.

Theo stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Yeah, why didn’t it stop?

 

***

 

It’s hard to describe the expression of horror on Liam’s and Mason’s faces when Lydia pulled the pink and purple cloth from the rabbit cage next to her bed. It was almost like the fabric had sealed off the air in the cage from the rest of the room and now the stench was leaking out. It was so dense they could almost see it.

“I think – your pet is dead,” Mason said, coughing.

“No, it’s not,” Liam said. He had buried his nose in his his sweater. His eyes were watering. “It’s one of them. One of the monsters.”

The cage looked empty but there was a rustling and crackling coming from the plastic pet home next to the hay rack.

Yeah, the hay rack. Something icky was sticking to the yellow and greenish straw. Liam tried not to look at it too closely.

“Ugh, _what_ is that _smell_ ,” Malia said. She was reluctantly coming closer.

“Guys.” Lydia was chuckling. “You’re total drama queens, all of you. Have you ever been to a farm? Doesn’t smell like roses there either, right? Get a grip, seriously.”

She quickly unhooked the top grid of the cage, pulled up the little house and, before they could really see anything, she had picked up her pet and hoisted it out of the cage.

“Isn’t he beautiful,” she said and pressed the thing into Malias face.

Malia let out a high-pitched shriek. Liam and Mason had quickly jumped out of Lydia’s reach.

“Oh God, oh God, ew ew ew…” Malia was hopping around the room. “That’s disgusting. Where on earth did you get that? It smells like it’s been dead for a week.”

“And why would you keep that in there,” Liam said, his voice muffled by his sweater.

Lydia looked hurt.

She was stroking Paws’s mangy fur.

It was really hard to watch.

There was something red and gory dripping from its yellow fangs that slowly made its way down Lydia’s arm.

“I sort of get why you have a rash,” Malia said, her face screwed up in disgust.

“Ok, Lydia, please don’t get upset. But you have to get rid of that thing,” Mason said.

“ _Paws_ ,” Lydia accentuated. She took a step back. Then another.

Liam and Malia looked at each other. Then, because Liam’s face was already yellowish, Malia nodded.

“Lydia,” she said soothingly. “I want you to hand over Paws. Now.”

Lydia had backed up against the wall, the bunny in her arms breathing rapidly. Her lips were trembling.

“Guys? Guys what are you doing?”

But Paws had already taken a leap from her arm.

In what seemed like a suicide mission it hurled itself at Malia.

Just weird.

The bunny fell apart before it could reach her face but that had obviously been its destination because her cheeks, lips and nose ended up sprinkled with gore and slime. A large part of the mess landed on her beige flats.

“I don’t get how these work,” Mason said, simultaneously disgusted and fascinated. “Gosh, it exploded right into your face. I bet it did that on purpose. Malia, are you ok?”

“Eeeeeww!”

Malia was almost crying. She lifted her feet, one after the other, then started tiptoeing out of the red and black puddle.

She was nothing compared to Lydia though.

The girl had collapsed onto her knees, tears already streaming down her face. She was running her hands through the heap of blood and flesh, looking miserable.

“Paws…”

And if Liam hadn’t been throwing up into her paper bin, he would have comforted her.

 

***

 

Stiles had downed a cup of coffee.

Prepared dinner, enjoyed the meal with his dad, done the dishes and watched TV with him for an hour or so.

It was almost midnight when he finally climbed the stairs to his room. He was so tired he swayed a little when he pulled his sweater and t-shirt over his head. But then, eight cups of coffee can really work magic. Magic, magic, magic. He was still exhausted but weirdly wired at the same time.

Although nothing had really happened, this had been one of the most stressful, panic ridden days in his life.

Not nothing, though.

It was with satisfaction that he kept picturing Theo slowly sliding down the wall in his own blood again and again. He should write Derek a thank-you note for that mental image.

Stiles had stepped out of his pants. His clothes were strewn all over the floor.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The scratch marks Theo had left on his chest, stomach and back the day before had not been as deep as he’d thought. They were healing already. Instead of ripping open his skin, Theo had made a few clean cuts that had quickly closed up again. Maybe he’d even helped a little. Make them seal up more quickly.

Stiles’s face darkened.

Theo had done that on purpose of course. To be able to dig deeper later. Start slow and gentle and grow more violent with time to keep it interesting as long as possible.

He’d always been very strict like that. Very principled.

There had to be rules, was the thing.

Stiles slipped one of the old saggy and washed-out shirts over his head that he only kept because they were so comfortable to sleep in. He shuffled over to his bed and, without even turning the lights off, fell asleep as soon as he hit the matress.

 

 

 

 

In his dream he was running.

He couldn’t go any faster, couldn’t breathe anymore, but the end of the street didn’t seem to come closer.

And he couldn’t breathe.

Stiles’s hands shot up to his throat but there was nothing there, just his sweaty skin. Stiles could feel his heart beat into his windpipe. Close it up. Stiles.

His feet kept moving but nothing happened. As if he was running on a treadmill. A rat race, Stiles.

“Stiles.”

His eyes flew open.

He was wrapped in darkness.

While he wasn’t sure where he was, he immediately knew that voice.

Theo gave him a minute to come back. Become conscious of his own body pressing into the mattress. His t-shirt sticking to his chest and back.

His blanket had slipped onto the floor, he was shivering.

“You were running again, mh.”

Theo’s voice was soft. Soothing, almost.

Stiles couldn’t see him but he felt a hand on his foot. On his ankle that was still hurting.

Oh no.

No no no.

He pressed his eyes shut.

Why did he have to be awake for this.

Maybe there was still time to bleed to death. Just get away from here quickly.

“Your heart is beating like crazy already. And we haven’t even started yet.”

The mattress bent under Theo’s weight. He must have climbed onto the bed.

A dark shape was hovering over him now.

Stiles felt Theo’s breath on the cold, sweaty skin of his throat and face.

There was a pause.

Then Theo said, “But it would be a shame not to see your face.”

And he switched on the light.

 

 

 

This is it.

The one scene that lures you into thinking this might be, after all, a romance. Stiles gets pinned into the mattress, Theo is sitting on his hips. But then you see Stiles’s shocked expression as his hands slide over his head by themselves, higher and higher. Ending up glued to the bedposts. Like magic.

And then Theo draws the first drop of blood and he looks less and less human and Stiles is screaming into his pillow praying that his dad is fast asleep and you wish this was a movie. So you can take a framegrab. Turn it into a thousand memes. That escalated quickly. Stuff like that, you’ve seen it before.

Lived through it even.

Pressed into your sofa or sprawled across your bed or, all retro, slouching against a tree in the park. Looking sophisticated.

When what you’re reading was in fact – no, let me cut you short.

You were thrilled.

I know it.

Stiles though, man.

He can’t take it anymore, you have to understand.

You don’t know where he's coming from. What he’s been through. But it’s vital that you understand.

Try and picture it now.

Feel his heart pounding.

See that glimmer in ten-year-old Theo’s eyes when he thinks about a new cruelty. He is sitting next to him in school even.

Stiles has been hyperactive, hypervigilant, in class ever since.

Hear his mother say _Stiles?_ with this frightened little shriek like she doesn’t know her son anymore when she opens the door to his bedroom and catches a glimpse of this abominable thing crawling across his lap and then flee from the light cone falling in from the hallway. Like he’d been swapped and a changeling is sitting upright in his bed in the dark petting his monster and staring at her. Already waiting for her before she even opened the door. Watching her.

But he’s beyond fear now.

When he wakes up the next morning after what couldn’t have been more than one or two hours of sleep, a deadly calmness has settled on his mind.

It’s all making sense now. The thing about this being the sequel.

And they’re all here for him, the monsters, their master and, strangely, this outcome is relieving. Like a load off his mind.

So he gets up, takes a shower, gulps down his breakfast.

He can do this.

Not forever maybe but he’s lost his sense of time. So it doesn’t matter.

It’s his story after all.

He throws his backpack over his shoulder, steps out of the house and pulls the door shut behind him.

 

The day is bright and clear, the sky above him empty as he walks over to his Jeep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steo in school, sterek out in the woods. Sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of blabla in this one, sorry about that, guys. And sorry about the long wait :x but THANKS again for your support and passionate comments, you guys are amazing <3

_Stiles._

_The lighter or the belt, Stiles._

_Silent and searing, or loud and intense._

_Which one today?_

 

 

You park your car half a mile from the school because you like the way people raise their heads from their textbooks and halt their conversations when they see you coming. Even though all these teenagers, they mean nothing.

Just look at them.

Barely eighteen and their brains are full of shit already and you know that they will be stumbling through life on autopilot, without ever stopping to think.

But Stiles’s face contorted with pain is something you treasure and come back to now and again, not too often though, because this feeling – the shivers the image is still sending through your spine – it will wear out and leave you wanting.

Craving more of these muffled screams.

The touch of his trembling fingers on your skin as he tries to grab hold of your arms, jerk your wrists away and make you stop somehow, maybe, but he’s so far gone already, so much in pain, that there is no strength to his grip.

And the way his lips quiver when you stop and he looks up to you, his cheeks already stained with tears, and you know that he thinks you don’t know what it feels like. That’s bullshit, of course, because you do. It’s because you know exactly where to range fire on the scale of human pain that you usually start out like that.

It’s neat and easy to regulate.

You’ve tried it on yourself, more than once. You were curious of course, about this body. So you let the teasing little flame of the lighter dance around your sensitive skin. Only a few seconds at first, the tip licking your wrist ever so lightly. But soon you were cooking your index finger or burning through five dermal layers on your forearm until you were hissing and wreathing and you had to pull back, let the lighter flick shut again.

People used to call you a monster when, really, all you had was a scientific interest in the human body and mind.

Stiles though.

He never used to call you that. That’s because he’s always been so much smarter, on the emotional side.

With Stiles, there is no knowing what to expect. He has no filters. He has no discourse for people outside of his brain. It’s why he’s so wired all the time. Full of life.

That’s the thing about him, too, though. No matter how much you like to see him raw and battered, you can’t do it all the time because it will wear him out, leave him broken and dead on the inside, useless, just like the others. You have to find a line, that is.

Torture, to you it’s not an atrocity. It’s a science.

So you learned exactly how much to deal his way with him still staying sane. If others don’t interfere, that is.

Stiles’s mother?

It wasn’t your fault, it really wasn’t. That had been downright dumb and so unnecessary.

And whenever you see the lines on his face – his lips pressed together firmly in unspoken sadness, the frequent critical frown – you can’t help admitting that he, Stiles, is still perfect, that what they did to him broke him in exactly the right places but that the story might as well have ended differently.

And humans, man, they’re so fragile, you know that better than anything. You’ve been exploring their limits for ages and ages.

Everyone responsible for that particular mistake had to pay but the damage done to your precious little boy is irreversible and it makes your stomach curl with white hot rage whenever you think about it. About someone else but you leaving their mark on his soul.

But not now.

This is your moment.

You stride through the crowd in front of the school, note the heads turning left and right, and it’s hard not to smile.

About finding this body and making the absolute best of it. You know exactly how pretty your face is and how these people crave something as beautiful as you. Showing them what they can never get is worth staying alive for.

There’s Scott and as soon as he sees you he waves. There’s Malia and Kira and they’re beaming at you and there’s –

There’s Stiles.

Half hidden behind his friends. He is just glaring at you. Pale.

Your gaze is now fixed on his face and it’s difficult, very difficult to break away and look at the others again. Only let your eyes meet his randomly, like it’s an accident. Like you haven’t been wanting to see the look on his face more than anything in the world.

As you draw closer you catch that wet, feverish glimmer in his eyes and you know it’s his body healing and fighting off infection.

And Scott’s smiling at you, shaking your hand when you join their circle. He can’t smell his wounds, of course, none of them can. You were very careful to not cut into his skin too deeply, not yet, and it had been so hard, so hard to hold back.

It’s with pride that you realize it takes a true master to exert this kind of controlled power over another’s body and none other than you could have done it.

It’s what really, truly makes you great even though they’ll never know.

When you look at each of them individually, on the way from Malia to Kira, your eyes meet Stiles’s again and this dark expression on his face, it’s all for you. The others would never understand but he’s raw and open in front of you. It’s like even now you can still hear him screaming and you know he must hear, _feel_ , the echo of it too, because he lets his gaze drop to the ground, not in submission, you know that very well, but in defiance and it takes all your strength, all your concentration, not to grab him and claim him, right then and there.

You know that the faintest hint of _something_ must have appeared on your face because Scott says, “Hey, you seem really happy today, Theo, had a great night?”

Oh, Scott.

Scott, Scott.

“Yes, you can say that again,” you say and run your right hand through your hair and you can see Malia staring at the muscles on your bare forearm and then quickly look away, blushing.

Stiles is wearing long sleeves, of course.

“Who’s the lucky lady,” Kira is saying and she smiles at you. Aw, she can be so sweet. It would be satisfying to rip her eyes out and leave her screaming in a dark alleyway but wasting like that is only for lower demons who will never understand the significance of sustainability, so you put on a smirk and reply, “That’s my little secret. But I can tell you this much – she is great and I hope I’ll see her again.”

Your frank smile must have been too much for Stiles because he abruptly turns around and, mumbling something about his stomach, hurries towards the building.

Scott is watching him disappear inside. You can see that he’s worrying about his friend.

“Something wrong?,” you say.

“Er… no. I mean, yeah, he’s running a fever. Hasn’t been feeling too great today,” Scott says and then he looks at you with something like… _suspicion_ in his eyes.

You raise your eyebrows because you feel intrigued. So, Scott is not as stupid as he looks. He must have heard Stiles’s heartrate quicken earlier, maybe even noticed how he started sweating.

You wonder how Scott explains away the smell of burnt skin on Stiles but just then Kira says, “He also burned himself real bad yesterday. He should be at Urgent Care right now, instead of at school…”

“Burned himself?,” you exclaim and it’s so obviously mocking you’re almost surprised that these people keep mistaking it for frankness. You _would_ be surprised, that is, if you didn’t now how good you were.

“Yeah, put his forearm on the stove. Couldn’t you smell it on him?”

You wrinkle your forehead a little bit and put on a face like you’re thinking about it.

“Now that you mention it… but with that smell of monster in Beacon Hills, it’s really dificult to say.”

Then you laugh and shake your head like, _Oh, this Stiles_ … and you say, “Man, someone really needs to watch him. How has he survived all of the shit you’ve been through?”

Kira is smiling and Malia is laughing because you are but Scott isn’t. His face has frozen all of a sudden.

“I’ll better go look for him.”

And he turns around and leaves and your eyes follow him, a broad grin on your face.

You never understood why people would still cling to dear life even when their bodies are old and broken and useless but this boy, Stiles, has been teaching you how great every new day can be, how full of anticipation.

The morning sun is blazing, the sky perfect and cloudless, and as you follow the girls into the building, you can just sense great things lying ahead.

 

 

 

 

And then, to be trembling in your chair from being so close to Stiles without being able to touch him, being almost high just from knowing how much you’re on his mind right now while he feigns paying attention to the teacher, it’s all you ever wanted. It’s foreplay.

It’s perfect bliss.

 

 

 

***

 

Stiles was slouching in his chair, trying hard to concentrate, but there it was again.

Nausea.

Since he got up that morning he’d been feeling sick to his stomach. He’d vomited twice within the first thirty minutes of being awake but then forced down his breakfast nevertheless. His body needed the food to heal. And heal he would and then think about a way out of this. There had to be one. And this time, no one would die.

And Theo.

He was sitting next to him again and even though he never looked to his left, Stiles could feel his presence, could feel Theo’s eyes brush over his body as if by accident every time he let his gaze wander around the classroom.

And this way of his, this nonchalant smoothness paired with his pretend-frank smile, it was making the girls crazy and the thought made Stiles want to throw up again, then and there.

Soon they had to change classrooms for Econ. Theo would now spent an hour sittting two rows behind him and Stiles didn’t even know if he should feel relieved about that. He hated how his brain was stuck on the guy while he tried to _not_ think about last night.

Then again, there wasn’t really that much to think about, or to remember, even.

Just flaring pain and the weight of Theo’s body on his legs. He had been careful not to look into Theo’s face at first and then, later, he’d been too dizzy to make out anything around him anymore.

Pain like that, it makes you want to run up walls and tear out your own hair, only you can’t because Theo keeps you fixated on the bed.

Not being able to move had been the worst of it, worse than the pain even.

When someone touched him all of a sudden, Stiles jumped. Scott had slid his arm around his shoulders and was now looking at him, face full of worry.

“You don’t look very good, Stiles, you sure you don’t wanna go see a doctor?”

Stiles was going to laugh it off but he just couldn’t get his lips to curl up into a smile so he just shrugged and wriggled out of Scott’s embrace. Scott was his best friend, yeah, but right now he couldn’t have anyone touching him.

Theo was watching it all, of course, leaning against his desk, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his skinnyjeans.

“Scott’s right, you look a little pale, man. You must have caught the flu or something,” he said.

“Or something,” Stiles mouthed, then made a weird movement with his head that was a half-hearted mixture of a nod and a shake, and said, “Yeah, I feel like I’m coming down with something. I’ll lie down when I get home.”

Scott wanted to say something else but then they heard Malia say, “Lydia!” and they all turned around.

Lydia had silently crept into the classroom and was already unloading books onto her desk when Malia had spotted her.

“Lydia, I need to talk to you!”

Lydia shot her a hostile glare.

Stiles thought she didn’t look angry as much as – murderous. He knew that look of course, he’d been in love with her for years before and, let’s just say, there had been awkward moments.

Then he’d met Malia of course and she had kissed him, voluntarily even, and he’d fallen for her quickly.

Had _wanted_ to fall for her. It had solved a lot of problems.

Only now, when he looked at her, he felt so far away from her like they were on two different planets.

Stiles felt a pang of guilt whenever he thought about it. Malia was this beautiful and cool girl but she wasn’t Lydia and even now when he only had friendly feelings for Lydia, Malia had never really taken her place in his heart. Maybe they just weren’t meant to be.

And then there was this way she was looking at Theo. Even now, when she turned to them with a helpless look, it seemed like she was first and foremost talking to Theo. Like he could solve all of her problems, everyone’s problems.

“What am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me even though I apologized like a hundred times.”

“Well, what did you do?,” Stiles said and Malia seemed to realize only now that he was there too.

He felt anger rise in his throat.

_No, it’s not her fault. It’s Theo, don’t take it out on your girl._

“I sort of… killed her pet.”

“You, sorry what?,” said Stiles and Scott just raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah it was really weird. She had this obsession with that bunny and, turned out it was one of these _things_. I guess it had been a bunny when she bought it, somehow, but like – _caught_ it or something. And then got – _zombified_.”

She shuddered at the thought.

“It fell apart like all over me. So. Freaking. Disgusting.”

“Aah,” said Scott. “I’d been wondering about your-”

“Awful smell? Why thank you,” Malia said sourly. Then she looked at Lydia’s back. The girl had slumped down into her chair in the first row and they could tell from the way she had pulled her shoulders up to her ears that she was clearly mad.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, buy her a new one maybe? And try not to kill it for a change?”

“Haha. You know you would have done the same, Scott. Plus, I didn’t even really touch it, it sort of fell apart on its own. It was so weird. That she wouldn’t realize this thing was – well, a _thing_. Not even when it had turned into a puddle of gore on her bedroom floor.”

“Yeah, Liam told me about it. Guess we gotta keep an eye on her.”

He lowered his voice.

“It has definitely something to do with her banshee powers. She seems to be reacting differently to these things than we are. I’ll talk to Deaton about it later, my shift starts at 5.”

Malia nodded.

“I should buy her new pet. A dog maybe. I’ll never touch or eat rabbit again, I swear…”

 

 

Stiles was grateful for Lydia being so weird that day because it gave him something else to think about. Especially when he caught her handing Malia a note during Econ that said _Die, bitch!_

The way Lydia had nodded slowly and darkly when Malia was staring at the writing had been hilarious. To him at least, since he knew that the bunny had only been a decoy. To confuse Lydia’s banshee powers probably. There was this particular sentence stuck in his head, echoing through the years. Little Theo’s voice when he said proudly, _All the supernatural creatures bow down to me, Stiles, except banshees, they’re badass rebels and they’re supposed to warn people when I come to collect someone and stuff but they almost never do nowadays._

They almost never do nowadays.

Why was that?

But whatever it was, Theo had obviously thought it wise to take care of Lydia. So she was a threat somehow. To his little game at least.

Stiles was hoping she was ok but since Theo didn’t look like he was set on killing this time, maybe everything was going to be alright. As alright as it could be at least.

When he got up all of sudden, the others turned around. They were having lunch in the cafeteria but he hadn’t even touched his meal yet.

“I’m going home, I’m super tired,” he said. That wasn’t even a lie, he was so exhausted he was swaying a little.

Scott nodded and said, “Good idea, just get some rest, ok? Go see the nurse before you leave.”

He nodded and quickly turned around.

Yeah, maybe getting the nurse to write him a sick note wasn’t such a bad idea. Keep up the act as long as possible. Plus, he did feel sort of feverish.

 

 

An hour later, Stiles was stumbling along a narrow path seamed with dense brush. He’d left his Jeep on the edge of the road and set off into the woods.

He’d been home briefly but the sight of his bed had made him back out of his room again right away. Of course he knew he had to sleep eventually but he wasn’t ready to give up control again so soon, not yet. Theo would be in school until five so there was some time at least to regain balance.

He was nibbling at an apple even although he wasn’t hungry at all but he felt that it might lessen his general shakiness. And being out here in the woods, away from Beacon Hills, from all the noise and the people, had always calmed his mind a little. As a kid, he’d often sought refuge under, or even in, a tree, whenever he’d been helplessly overwhelmed by sensory overload.

_Wait a second. You know these trees._

He’d been walking around listlessly for over an hour when he suddenly realized where he was. In the distance, melting into the darkening sky, was the blackened shell of the Hale house.

Derek wouldn’t be out here, of course, he’d returned to his apartment downtown but still, what was wrong with him.

Admittedly, he had been thinking about Derek earlier. But only in terms of, _I wonder what that sourwolf is doing when he’s not creeping around the school._

Working out probably. He had to be at it constantly to keep this body in shape. Even werewolves had to work out, right?

“Stiles?”

Oh, freaking hell.

There was the man himself gliding out of the shadows like a vampire.

“I though I’d heard someone. What do you want here?”

“I was just walking here minding my own business.”

Dere glared at him.

“Well, you should be minding your own business at school or in your room or wherever but not here.”

“Who died and made you king of the forest,” Stiles muttered.

“Don’t be childish. It’s dangerous out here. I took down ten of these things today and I can sense more coming tonight. The whole forest reeks of them.”

Derek looked at him sternly.

Stiles stuck his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Alright, well. Good. So, I’ll just be..” He motioned back in the direction of his Jeep.

“And you – go on being muscular and - wait, do you work out every day? Because these abs are just freaking scary, dude, but then again, so is all the rest of that superhuman beasty - _thing_ that you got going on there, so nevermind - what are you laughing about?”

Derek had crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was grinning at Stiles.

“Nothing, you just seem to have snapped back to normal.”

“Yeah, so?” Stiles didn’t know why but when talking to Derek he always fell into defensive mode pretty quickly.

“Nothing. I’m just glad about it.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something but Derek’s frank smile puzzled him so much he couldn’t come up with a witty retort.

“Even though you do look like crap.”

And there he was again.

“Please,” Stiles said. “You usually look like you’re a vampire, you know, skin-wise, even though you should totally – wait, there’s no vampires, right?”

“Never heard of any.”

Derek was still grinning.

“Come on, you hyperactive little punk…”

“Wha- where?”

“Back to your Jeep. You obviously need to rest. Or eat something.”

“No! No, I mean, I’d rather walk around here for a bit. Seriously, I’m pretty sure there’s no monsters here. None. Whatsoever. Yeah, I’d say this part here is definitely safe.”

“You think? And then you’d do what?”

“Just… just… enjoying the fresh air and – looking at the trees and – I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

Derek raised his eyebrows. Then he shrugged.

“Ok, let’s go back to the house. If you’re dead set against driving back now you should at least not stay outside.”

He nodded in the direction of the Hale house.

“I just did some cleaning and I think I saw a few packs of spaghetti and canned tomatoes in the kitchen.”

“You _clean_? Wait, there’s a working _kitchen_ in there?”

Derek just rolled his eyes.

 

 

Yes, the kitchen was definitely working.

Stiles was sitting at the table, staring at Derek who busily set to preparing an early dinner, like he knew what he was doing.

Usually, he would have teased him mercilessly because, come on, Derek Hale in an apron? Please. But right now, he was far too tired for that and the colors of the table and kitchen counter stung in his eyes. He blinked several times but it only got worse.

Derek’s voice rose and faded and Stiles wondered what this house had been like before Derek’s family had been killed. He hadn’t been a happy teenager, that was for sure, but maybe he’d been a happy little boy.

Well, then again, maybe not.

He wondered what Derek had been like as a kid.

Stiles snorted at the idea of a gloomy little guy in the sandbox, throwing away his sand pail because he couldn’t work with the other kids staring at him.

Derek glared at him and slammed a steaming plate of spaghetti down onto the table in front of Stiles.

“Are you losing your mind?”

“Sorry, I just – nevermind…”

When he started eating he realized how hungry he was.

Derek just stared when Stiles emptied his plate in less than five minutes and then craned his neck to check if there was more on the counter.

“Don’t you get anything to eat at home? You’re like a… famished puppy. Go ahead, there’s more.”

He shook his head when Stiles downed the second helping exactly as fast as the first one.

“Wow, mherek, you’m veary a goog cook,”

“If you hate chewing so much, fine, but at least swallow before you talk, ok?”

Stiles gulped down his last bite and coughed.

“And exactly what did you think I was doing when I was hungry?,” Derek added.

“Dunno… gut a deer?”

Derek let out a snorting laugh.

He collected the dishes and got up.

“But I meant to talk to you anway, Stiles, we might as well do that now.”

“Whaddup, sourwolf.”

“It’s about Theo.”

It was like something had yanked Stiles back to reality brutally. He realized that he hadn’t thought about Theo once during the past hour. Now, of course…

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Derek set down the dishes, turned around and looked at him earnestly.

“You’re not really _dating_ Theo, right? Come on, Stiles…”

“Why would that be so – hard to believe? Because being gay is something you choose?”

He was getting defensive again.

“No,” Derek said, grimacing. “Of course not. Because you’re about the worst liar I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

“Oh.”

"...and for all I care, you can mess around with whoever you like," Derek added in a low-voice. He had turned around and was piling the dishes into the sink.

Derek was right about him being awful at lying but he needed to believe him, just this once. He had to because he was Derek and because he would do something utterly stupid and reckless if he found out who Theo was and it would get him majorly killed.

Stiles was still puzzled by the fact that Theo had let Derek get away last time but he figured that had only been because he’d just returned. Even now, all his attention was still on Stiles. After a while, however, he would go looking for other playthings, Stiles knew that, and he would make sure that at least none of his friends got in his way.

So he said, “Stay out of it, Derek, ok?”

The brief surge of cheerfulness was definitely gone. He got up, ignoring that sinking feeling in his stomach. It was like reality came crushing back, hitting him hard, but he was so tired. So, so tired.

“Thanks for late lunch – or really early dinner. Gotta get home…”

Stiles was already out in the hallway when Derek said, “Strip.”

“What?”

Stiles stopped and turned around.

He must have misheard but he was almost certain that Derek had just said-

“Strip.”

Derek was leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed.

Stiles stared at him.

Derek started looking gloomier by the second.

“I said. _Strip,_ ” he said through gritted teeth.

“Wha-”

“Take off your shirt. _Now_.”

Wow. Derek could go from sort of cheerful to scary, inarticulate and crazy really fast.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No, I just want you to prove to me that you’re gay.”

Stiles’s stared at him, mouth open, his cheeks slowly reddening, but Derek rolled his eyes.

“Relax, I was _joking_. You smell like burnt skin and blood and I want to know why.”

“I put my arm on the stove by accident. It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, avoiding Derek’s eyes.

“Stiles,” Derek said, “come on. How dumb do you think I am?”

“I’m telling the truth, for Christ’s sake, why do you even care?!”

“You’re pack.”

As simple as that.

“Bye, Derek,” Stiles said but before he could turn around Derek was at his side. He had grabbed Stiles’s arm to keep him from leaving, Derek-style.

Stiles should have seen that one coming but he really didn’t. Derek’s firm grip on his badly burnt skin sent an unexpected flash of pain through his arm. He yelped and his knees gave out.

Without thinking, Derek reached out and caught him by the shoulders which made Stiles wince and whimper even more.

Derek immediately let go of him and Stiles’s knees hit the floor.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Stiles muttered. He was breathing hard.

There was a pause and Stiles’s thoughts were racing. He needed a plausible explanation. He fell down the stairs? He’d been making out with Theo and they’d accidentally fallen down the stairs together? Or, he wasn’t actually dating Theo but Theo was crazy about him and he’d been so annoyed by Theo that he hadn’t been paying attention while preparing dinner. Yeah, that sounded plausible. It wasn’t so far from the truth either. Except that Theo had no sexual interest in him. And that kiss – well, whatever _that_ had been.

But just when he opened his mouth to give Derek his long-ass hyper-plausible explanation, Derek moved. Stiles only saw it from the corner of his eyes and before he could do anything, his shirt was being yanked off his body.

The fabric scraped over his burnt skin painfully.

“Good _God_. What in God’s freakin’ – _Stiles_ , what the _hell_?!”

Stiles just sat there, still on his knees. He didn’t dare look up to Derek because, for some reason, he was ashamed.

“I…,” he started.

“Don’t give me ‘I’m into some weird shit,’ Stiles!,” Derek spit out. Stiles felt Derek's eyes dart across his naked chest and stomach netted with thin cuts. He knew the burns on his upper and lower arms looked really bad too. He’d been feeling them every second of the day.

“Theo,” Derek said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No, he-”

“ _Stiles_! What is _wrong_ with you? Why would you cover for this piece of shit?,” Derek yelled.

“ _Because_.”

Tears were shooting into his eyes and Stiles hated himself for it. But he was so tired. He’d been an inch away from breaking anyway and Derek screaming at him definitely did the trick.

And he was so tired.

“Because you’d _interfere_ and then he’d kill you, he’d slowly torture you to death, all of you, just to punish me because that’s what he does, it’s what he’s always done.”

He let his head drop to his chest and prayed that Derek didn’t see the tears drop onto his naked stomach.

“So just stay out of it all, Derek. Please.”

Stop talking, Stiles.

Don’t lose control now, don't give in.

Because Theo, he will know.

He always does.

Derek didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he chucked Stiles’s shirt at him and said, “Don’t put it on, yet. We have to treat those burns.”

Stiles hurriedly wiped his face and tried to calm down.

It’s difficult to stop once you started crying, is the thing.

Derek didn’t comment on Stiles’s puffy cheeks when he came back five minutes later. He just gestured for him to follow, so Stiles got up and did.

Soon, they were sitting next to each other on a large sofa in front of an empty fireplace and Derek was carefully dabbing iodine onto Stiles’s cuts and burns. Stiles whimpered every time he touched his skin.

He was also blushing, which utterly confused him. It was such a weird situation, being nursed by Derek Hale, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good. Safe, somehow, after Theo’s rough treatment.

Stiles wondered what time it was. He didn’t want Theo to show up here and Stiles knew he would. But he didn’t feel ready to face the world of pain that Theo would plunge him into again soon. Derek’s words startled him out of his thoughts.

“This is really bad, Stiles. Some of these are deep. That must’ve hurt like hell.”

Stiles didn’t respond. The word _torture_ hadn’t actually fallen yet and he meant to keep it that way.

“Let me get some bandages to put around your arms. Some of these look infected already, maybe you better show them to a doctor tomorrow…”

He walked out of the room again and Stiles had half a mind to just leave but he couldn’t bring himself to get up from the sofa.

And wow, Derek could be really nice _and_ his aftershave smelt great. And he seemed _worried_ , sort of. Stiles knew he was, because the other man had said little but had been as careful as possible not to hurt him. And he hadn’t asked him any more questions.

And that sofa was damn comfortable. But he couldn’t let his guard down. He’d have to go back home soon and he would have to be ready, prepared.

Unfeeling.

 

“I couldn’t find bigger ones, these will have to be enough,” Derek said when he walked into the room, and then stopped short. Stiles had face-planted into the sofa, one arm draped over the backrest, chin buried in the fuzzy fabric.

 

He was fast asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coach yells at Stiles, Theo is being hormonal, Lydia is being a bitch, Derek is being a great cook and Stiles is being suicidal.  
> So not much happening here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, guys; next chapter will be faster, I promise <3 please bear with me <3

Stiles was panting.

It was the perfect day to be working on his Jeep but he was running late.

He was hurrying along neat rows of hedges and the school building was slowly drawing closer but it was already five minutes into the first period.

Econ.

Great.

Coach would probably be yelling at him for the rest of the time when he finally got there.

Stiles’s ankle was radiating pain through his body but running like that, it felt good.

He zigzagged around a jogger in a blue track suit and his shaggy dog and darted through the gates, just barely maintaining his balance.

Just imagine he’d face-planted onto the asphalt. That would’ve been painful. And awkward.

Of course, blurting into the classroom with his face on fire half a minute later, sweating like a menopausal soccer mum, was a wholly different kind of awkward.

“Stilinksi-,” Coach started, apparently so outraged at the interruption, and his tardiness, and his laziness, his squeaky soles, and the lack of an apology that he couldn’t decide which of these villainies to single out for a rant. So he shut his mouth again and just stared at him, furiously.

Stiles slid behind his desk, shoulders pulled all the way up to his ears and tried hard not to look at anyone in particular and _explicitly_ not at Coach.

That was the only rule. Never look him in the eye after you managed to make him this mad this early in the day.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage and now that he was sitting down he felt like his face was melting. He tried to keep his legs still but that wouldn’t help much if his head popped off his body.

He was already floating a few inches above his torso.

It was only when his heartrate had settled at a more bearable pace that he managed to get a grip on some of the thoughts racing through his head.

Couch had fallen into one of his anger-spiked monologues and barked “Stilinksi!” only at the end of every third or fourth sentence to point out that Stiles’s behavior would yet have consequences, and Stiles was thinking about Derek.

He couldn’t believe Derek hadn’t thrown him out of the house.

He couldn’t believe that instead of returning to his apartment downtown, Derek had actually stayed with him, curling up under blanket on the floor – the freaking _floor_ – after calling the Sheriff so he wouldn’t worry about his son.

He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep and slept for twelve hours straight.

He couldn’t believe Derek had put two old plaid blankets on him. Not one, two. They’d been the first thing he’d smelled when he’d woken up, disoriented, hair disheveled, blinking into the sunlight. Then he’d smelled the bacon.

He couldn’t believe how – _nice_ Derek had been.

Not mean or cold or violent or resentful and just barely grumpy.

Then they’d set out for Stiles’s car. No use taking the Camaro, she would’ve gotten stuck within minutes. Too bad Derek didn’t drive a Ford Anglia.

So, for like thirty minutes Stiles had just shuffled through the leaves next to Derek, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders pulled up to his ears. Embarassed, sort of. Both of them, probably.

Like two random people who suddenly found themselves stuck with each other.

But then, not just any two people though.

Stiles could never relax with Derek.

But he must have, somehow, was the thing.

You don’t just fall asleep, basically in the middle of a conversation with someone you’re not comfortable with.

Stiles grimaced and started scribbling down random words, pretending to take notes.

This guy.

He’d all been like, ‘Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fell asleep on your moldy sofa.’

And then Derek, annoyingly, had not taken offense.

Which was clearly against the established rules of the Stiles-Derek-love-hate-relationship.

He’d just muttered a short reply.

We’re pack.

Just the three words.

Or, well, two, maybe. He wasn’t sure. Right now, he didn’t really have the nerve for linguistics.

“Stilinksi!”

Stiles jumped. There was stifled laughter from the back rows. Giggling. As if being a teenager wasn’t hard enough without everyone scrutinizing you all the time.

He tried not to put on too sour a face and scrambled back into his chair.

Man, he really needed to have his wits together during Econ.

 

 

“You alright?”

Scott gave him a pat on the shoulder, then let his hand linger and squeezed it. As if he wanted to check just how much meat Stiles had on his bones. Luckily, Scott had caught a spot that was not still burning so Stiles managed to not flinch.

He nodded and tried to relax while Scott looked him over with his worried-dad-expression.

So annoying.

“So why do you smell like-”

Scott lowered his nose onto Stiles’s purple hoodie.

Stiles screwed back his head.

“Dude, way too close.”

“Mothballs? And Grandma Pattie’s towels.”

“You mean like lavender and stuff? Yeah, I fell asleep under a pile of old blankets.”

“Derek keeps his blankets perfumed lavender?”

“Yeah I – wait, what-”

Scott dragged him out of the classroom, grinning. Second period was chemistry, first floor, at the other end of the hallway.

“Derek called me late last night to tell me that you’re at his place.”

Stiles blinked a few times.

“So why on earth would he do that.”

Scott was grinning apparently enjoying the uncomfortable look on his best friend’s face. And isn’t that what best friends are for?

“Dunno, man, he just said you guys had dinner and then rented a movie.”

“What?! What the-”

Stiles swallowed and took a deep breath, too outraged to say anything for a second or two.

“That lying filthy-”

“Relax, it was a joke… ha, you should’ve seen your face. He actually didn’t say much, just that you passed out on his chouch after he found you rumbling through the forest like a lost puppy.”

“His exact words?”

“Yup.”

“Figured.”

Stiles bit his tongue, fuming. Uncomfortable even, a little. And not just from biting his tongue.

For whatever reason, he would have liked to keep the whole falling asleep and drooling onto Derek’s sofa a secret.

“So, you spent the night at Derek’s.”

Oh, alright.

That’s why.

They were about to take their seats for the second period and Theo had closed up to them. He wasn’t lounging in his chair, or running his hand through his hair or any of the smug things he usually did.

As a matter of fact, he seemed tense.

Alert, the way he kept his arms by his sides without relaxing his muscles.

Keyed-up.

But maybe Stiles was just imagining it. Because he knew him so well, Theo.

Or used to, at least.

Let’s leave it at that, you don’t even have to think about it. About the way your skin is still hurting and sore and cut up under the bandages.

Don’t go down that road.

“Hi, Theo, you here,” Stiles said, hoarsely.

He’d somehow managed to disconnect the pain on his arms and chest from Theo and he’d rather it stayed like that, thank you very much.

It was then that he realized how much Derek had managed to take his mind off Theo.

And that Theo hadn’t paid them a visit at the Hale house.

Yeah, why was that?

From the way Theo was staring at him now, Stiles wasn’t too sure Theo hadn’t meant to.

What was up with that?

They took their seats when Mrs. Martin walked into the classroom. Theo lingered for a few seconds as if he wanted to say something, then turned around and slowly walked to his seat.

 

 

Stiles had to wait for lunch break to find out more. Not that he’d really wanted to.

Especially not like that.

Not with his face slammed into the wall of the boys’ locker room. His cheek pressed against the tiles and, God, who knows when someone had last cleaned there. Not that that was the most pressing problem. He could already feel a bad bruise coming on on his left cheek bone.

“ _Where were you_ ,” Theo spit out. His fingers dug into Stiles’s wrist and shoulder and, of course, Theo had placed his hands exactly in the right spots.

“Ow ow ow not at home and why would you care,” Stiles mumbled, breathing against the tiles.

Theo let go of him and Stiles spun around, rubbing his cheek.

“Were you with Phanuel? No that can’t be, he can’t be down here anymore. I’ll ask you one last time, Stiles, _where were you_?!”

Stiles was just staring at Theo. There was a ringing in his ears and an image in his mind. 

A man getting up from his place at the kitchen table, putting his dad’s crossword away and saying, Stiles.

Stiles.

“Stiles!”

Theo looked at him for another one or two seconds and then jumped at him. Stiles’s back was being slammed into the tiles and he had pressed his eyes shut, tensed up his whole body because he knew it was going to happen.

A moment later, his eyes flew open again.

What he had not expected was the wetness on his lips as Theo’s tongue pressed into his mouth urgently. Hungrily even.

But there was no one behind Theo, this time, or in the doorway. No one except the rows of dirty blue lockers and benches and the cool tiles pressing against his spine as Theo kissed him violently.

When he bit down on his lip, Stiles pushed him away.

“What is _wrong_ with you?! Are you a friggin’ vampire now?”

His index finger had found the spot on his lip, pressing against it now. The blood was on Theo’s lips and chin as well.

And Theo, he raised his eyebrows. He seemed calmer now, more relaxed.

“What, do you want me to go back to our usual routine? Stiles, is that what you want?”

“N-no, I didn’t mean-”

“No, we can do that.”

Theo rubbed his hands together and let his knuckles crack, the sound shooting through Stiles’s body like an electric shock. A sound his own bones would be making if he didn’t think of a way out of here soon.

He could just call for help? Or, something less embarrassing, like Fire! Fire!

And yet, he just stood there, frozen and pale, staring at Theo as if waiting for him to make his next move.

Panicking already.

“So let’s just assume you were at Derek’s. What would you want there?”

Stiles just shook his head, his lips refusing to let out words.

“Mh, Stiles? When you knew we had an appointment.”

“Ha!,” Stiles finally managed and then, voice cracking up, “As if I – I-”

Theo had put his hand under Stiles’s chin.

“You what?”

Stiles was staring into Theo’s eyes, that pretty face and was he – no, impossible.

Jealous?

And if so, was that a good or a bad thing?

Theo was stroking his cheek now.

“That’s going to turn into a bad bruise, beloved… unless…”

Stiles felt the spot warm up and he knew the redness was gone.

He’d always thought it ironic, that the devil could get his body to heal.

You would think he would only be capable of destruction, but really, healing is not necessarily always a good thing. And good and evil, Stiles had abandoned this terminology a long time ago and started to think more in categories of cruel and empathic.

Or, cruel _and_ empathic, the scariest of all.

Like Theo who was pressing his body into his now and, oh God, Stiles could feel it again pushing into his hips, something hard.

He wasn’t sure if he preferred asexual monster-child Theo or – or this, whatever the hell this was.

The next kiss was soft and almost gentle and then Theo was breathing against his throat.

“I never knew you would be intoxicating on this level as well, Stiles… your heart is beating so fast.”

Stiles didn’t dare move.

At least, no pain this time, right?

Only, then Theo’s hand slipped into his pants. His fingers squeezing around the waistband, then feeling their way down his boxer shorts, feeling for-

“What the fuck are you – Theo, stop that, what the hell-”

He was trying to push him back like before but Theo clearly wanted to stay where he was this time.

When his hand closed around Stiles’s dick, Stiles felt nauseous.

So that’s what this was going to be.

 

 

 

It hadn’t worked.

Stiles just wouldn’t get hard which had made Theo mad. He’d started jerking him off with a firm grip and rather roughly and Stiles was whimpering and feeling deeply uncomfortable and just wanted to vanish but didn’t dare move and then the bell had rung.

The look on Theo’s face when he led his hand slide out of Stiles’s pants and stepped back from him, though.

Stiles had just turned around mechanically, his feet carrying him out the door.

Nothing had happened but he felt violated.

But he should be glad, right?

Theo hadn’t crushed his hand or broken his leg.

And his cheek was pale and soft and definitely not purple but, for some reason, it still hurt a little.

Soon Stiles was sitting in class again, trying hard to focus on the blackboard but it was even more difficult than usual.

 

 

And then his pencil dropped to the floor.

There was a clutter and everyone turned around and looked at him and his teacher said “Mr. Stilinski,” and Stiles mumbled “sorry, sorry” and inelegantly scrambled to the floor to pick it up again.

He climbed back into his chair, cheeks reddening and heart beating fast.

That weird dude in his kitchen, he’d said something else.

And Stiles had just remembered what it was.

 

 

***

 

 

“So, Lydia… you alright again?”

Scott was looking at Lydia who was looking at her face in her make-up mirror.

“Lydia?”

She let the mirror click shut and met his eyes, a sour expression on her face.

“First you drag me to the library, then you interrogate me. What is this supposed to mean, Scott McCall?”

Scott blinked.

“Scott McCall?”

“Yes,” Lydia said icily, “that’s your name isn’t it?”

“Yeah but – what’s wrong with you?”

“Listen, Scott McCall. I don’t have time to babysit you. We’re in a war.”

“In a what now?”

“War, Scott. _War_.”

“Ok? You mean the monsters, right? Because I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“I mean,” Lydia said, slowly, “ _that_ bitch.”

Scott turned around to follow the hostile glare Lydia shot over his right shoulder. Malia and Kira had just entered the library. Kira waved and Malia threw them a pained look and then they vanished behind a row of shelves.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I _never_ kid, Scott McCall. Never,” Lydia said haughtily.

“Lydia, you do know that Malia didn’t mean to kill your pet.”

“Paws.”

“Paws, right.”

“And yet, she did.”

Lydia was looking at him, strawberry red lips pursed, and Scott wondered how the hell he was supposed to get her back to normal.

Why was it that Lydia was always the first one to freak out when something bad was happening or about to happen? She was a great indicator for catastrophe, really, but what did it mean?

Ok, change of plans.

“What do you know about Theo?,” Scott said when Lydia was about to get up. She turned to him, purse in her lap.

“Who?”

“ _Theo_. Raeken. Hanging out with us every day, good looks, sort of smug…”

“Oh yeah. Not much. Is he on the Lacrosse team?”

“No?”

“Is he on any team? At all?”

“No?”

“Then I’m not interested, sorry. See you around, Scott McCall.”

She flung her hair over her shoulder, threw him a final, condescending look and strutted out of the library like the queen of Beacon Hills.

Scott was staring at her back and curly hair wipping with every step.

Maybe, just maybe, she was alright. This had always been Lydia’s normal after all.

 

 

Lydia stepped out of the building five minutes later. She smiled at the guy who was holding the door for her.

“Do we take your car?”

“No honey, not today. Did Scott say anything?”

“Not much but he’s getting suspicious.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“I think.”

“Then we have to do something. Eventually at least. I’ll keep you updated about the next steps. And keep an eye on that Malia girl.”

Lydia nodded, beaming at him. Usually she wouldn’t just take commands from anyone but with  _him_ , that was different. It made her proud.

That he had chosen her of all people.

He’d needed a banshee, yes, but there were other banshees around. Presumably. But he’d sought out, specifically _asked for_ , her.

That must mean something.

Right?

 

 

When Stiles walked out of the school, Derek was already there.

He was leaning against the Jeep, hands in his tight black jeans.

Stiles nodded and Derek nodded back. Smooth. That was going to be a ride full of chatting and laughter.

“So, did Theo bother you today?,” was the first thing Derek said when they had pulled the doors shut.

Stiles started the engine and said, “Yeah, briefly. He was furious because he couldn’t find me last night. Apparently. But nothing happened,” he added when he saw the worried look on Derek’s face.

Pff, Derek Hale, _worried_. About him, too. Hilarious, right?

“So, you think the Hale house is somehow off his radar?”

Stiles shrugged and steered out of the parking lot.

“Maybe… thing is, he can usually go anywhere he wants, alright? If you knew what he was, then – well, it’s not normal for him to not get what he wants, is what I’m saying.”

“So what is he?”

Stiles could feel Derek’s piercing gaze scrutinizing every inch of his face and it made him really uncomfortable so he just shrugged.

After a few moments, Derek turned to look out the window.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he simply said.

Stiles swallowed. There was this lump in his throat all of a sudden and it made his eyes water. What the hell.

Stiles pulled out onto Main and shifted into the second gear.

The last thing he saw before turning onto Fourth Street was Theo walking into the middle of the road in his rear-view mirror.

 

 

Stiles followed Derek inside the half-burnt shell of his family home.

“What’s that smell?”

Derek turned around, actually looking embarrassed.

“Er…. that’s lasagna.”

“ _Lasagna_?”

“Yeah, I made lasagna.”

“You made _lasagna_?”

“You don’t have to repeat everything I say,” Derek muttered.

Stiles shook his head.

“Er, yeah, sorry, I was just – did you really make lasagna?”

“Why, don’t you eat lasagna?” He sounded pissed and his face had gone back to grumpy.

“No, I _love_ lasagna,” Stiles said quickly, “it was just, I didn’t think you had a working oven here, I really didn’t, also, did you make that before or after I texted you?”

Derek just shrugged and walked into the kitchen.

 

 

And it was splendid. Derek was the best cook ever, as good as Stiles’s mom probably even and Stiles felt sorry when he thought about the microwave dinner his dad was going to have.

Then he thought about his dad teasing him earlier and he felt less sorry all of a sudden. He could really be a mean old man sometimes.

Shouldn’t you be spending time with other teenagers instead of a 25-year-old man? Or with your girlfriend?, his dad had said after Derek had climbed into Stiles's Jeep again. He could hear all the way across the yard so he must also have heard the Sheriff add, He’s at least as good-looking as Malia though, so I sort of get it, son.

Stiles had blushed wildly and tried to explain to his dad what it meant to be in a pack but his dad had just laughed and slapped Stiles’s shoulder and told him his funny bone must be broken.

His dad could be such a – _dad_ sometimes.

When Stiles got into the Jeep, a gloomy look on his face, Derek was grinning.

He was laughing a lot about him lately.

Like right now.

Just because Stiles ate so fast that he regularly choked on his food. And had the table manners of a wildling. But he really didn’t see what was so funny about that.

“I take it you like my cooking?”

“Mmffegthelennt,” Stiles said. Then he chewed as fast as he could because his phone was buzzing.

He gulped down the whole bite, coughed and said, “Stilinski here?”

“Stiles?”

Stiles’s face fell. It was Malia. And she was crying.

“Are you ok? Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” Malia sobbed. “Yeah, I – I need to tell you something.”

“Ok?”

Stiles’s heart was pounding all of a sudden.

In his head a memory from that afternoon was re-playing. Theo was walking out onto the road again, slowly, only this time, Stiles could see his face.

He was smiling.

“I slept with Theo,” Malia was saying now, “and I’m so sorry.”

Stiles heard Derek turn in his chair but he didn’t care. He knew there were tears on his cheeks but all that mattered now was-

“Malia, are you with Theo right now?”

“No, he left. Stiles, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I was so upset because of Lydia and he was so nice to me. He drove me home and – and it just happened.”

“Did he hurt you?”

He knew his voice sounded strained.

“No. No, he didn’t. I _wanted_ it.” Malia was still sobbing.

“I want to break up with you, Stiles. This has been coming on for a long time now, you know it has, and I care so much about you but it’s just – we haven’t had sex in ages, Stiles and it’s – it’s not working out.”

“Are you with Theo now?”

“No, I – I don’t know. It was just sex and I – I want to be on my own… Stiles?”

“Stiles?,” Derek said but Stiles was already out the door.

He’d dropped the cellphone and sprinted out to his Jeep. Derek had to walk back to town if he must, it wasn’t that far, and Stiles really didn’t want him to come along.

He wanted to kill Theo and he needed to do it on his own.

 

 

Theo, of course, couldn’t be killed and even though Stiles knew that punching the smug grin out of his stupid face felt amazing.

“I knew you’d come. I probably didn’t even have to text you my address. You would have found me anyway, right?,” Theo said. Then he spit out a mouthful of blood and wiped his face with the sleeve of his black hoodie.

Instead of replying, Stiles jumped at him again. He knocked Theo from his feet, put his knees on his chest and started hitting his face.

If he couldn’t kill him he wanted to hurt him at least, wanted to make him scream for mercy but all Theo did was laugh.

His teeth were all bloody und his face was starting to get puffy but his eyes were bright.

“That’s the spirit, Stiles…”

Stiles stopped and slid off Theo’s chest, mostly because his hands were burning.

“You had no right – that was _not_ the deal…”

Theo groaned and sat up. His face was already healing but there was blood everywhere.

“You broke the deal, Stiles. _You_ got away from _me_. How _dare_ you get away from me?”

The smile had vanished from Theo’s face.

“I looked everywhere for you. I was _worried_ about you.”

“Worried?”

Stiles blinked.

“What are you fucking mad?”

“Mh,” Theo said and shook his head in disbelief. “You really despise me.”

“What the hell did you think, you dirty fucking bastard?! That we could be friends?!”

Stiles was yelling now.

Theo took a deep breath. His face had healed completely and he wiped off the rest of the blood with a towel he had brought along.

“Ok, you’re not ready yet. That’s ok, I understand.”

“You under-… what the-”

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way. I’ll leave your friends alone if you promise to never talk to Derek Hale again.”

“What?”

Stiles picked himself up, grimacing. “You really are nuts. What do even care?”

“I – don’t. I was ok with Malia, alright? The two of you fooling around like a bunch of – well, teenagers. But this Derek guy – I just don’t like the way he’s looking at you. That’s all. I know you want to make me mad but – you don’t have to go that far and get yourself into danger like that.”

Stiles just stared at him. He couldn’t believe it.

Theo had slept with Malia to get back at him.

To get back at him for making him jealous.

Theo actually thought Stiles was playing with him.

That was a whole new level of insane but it gave Stiles an unexpected advantage.

A weapon.

“Yeah? Well… I’d rather spend time with Derek than with anyone else right now,” he said, closely watching Theo’s face.

And there it was again.

His smile, stiffening a little.

“Don’t lie to me, Stiles.”

Funny thing was – he wasn’t and he knew Theo could tell.

So let’s play this little game.

“I feel safe with Derek, and better than I could ever feel with you. Do you even know what that is, caring for someone?”

“I care about you, Stiles,” Theo said frankly and it made Stiles laugh loudly and bitterly. All of this was so sick and twisted, he couldn’t even.

“You don’t know anything, Lucifer. Taking a human body doesn’t make you human.”

“Makes me more human than you would think,” Theo growled. “It makes me _long_ for you, Stiles.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I long for someone else.”

Now that was an obvious lie but Theo – he looked pained. Like Stiles’s words had actually hurt him and it was all Stiles had ever wanted.

He didn’t care about later or tomorrow, he just wanted that expression on Theo’s face to last, to deepen, so he said, “Ever since I first saw Derek I thought about what it would feel like to touch his body and you know what? Beating the crap out of you is sort of dull but punching Derek would be – the most delicious thing imaginable. Yeah, you know… touching that smooth skin and these rock-hard abs…”

There. That was the only language Theo could understand.

And he couldn’t tell Stiles was lying because his face had fallen and he looked almost miserable now.

Why couldn’t he tell Stiles was lying?

What was it about Derek that made Theo feel so threatened and alert and disoriented?

But whatever the hell it was, Stiles didn’t care. He was in control now and it felt better than he ever thought possible.

“Sorry, buddy. What you were talking about, it’s _being in love_ , even though you probably don’t realize that, fucked-up king of hell that you are. And none of your cheap tricks could make me fall for you.”

Also because he was straight, obviously, but since that would ruin his line of argumentation Stiles chose to not point that out to Theo. And being who he was, Theo might go ahead and claim a female body. Lydia's, for instance, and Stiles couldn't let that happen. No, it was perfect the way it was now.

Theo looked hurt and Stiles greedily took that image in. He knew he had to savor every moment because what would come after would be bad, really bad.

But it would be worth it.

And Theo was already looking gloomier and angrier. Less vulnerable and more dangerous. His eyes were flaring yellow, “You know I can take Derek Hale away from you and let him rot in the darkest corner of hell.”

“Hello, didn’t you just listen to me? Hurting my friends will only make you more – more insignificant to me.”

“Does it… well… then there’s nothing I can do, right?”

“Nothing. Maybe be a little – less murderous.”

And maybe that was it. The magic key. The way out of this.

Maybe, if he just tried carefully – slowly and convincingly –

“We might – you know, everything might change if you wanted it to, Theo. Lucifer.”

There was a pause. Theo had let his head drop onto his chest and for a wild and crazy moment Stiles thought he was crying. But a second later he knew he had made a mistake, a big big mistake, because Theo was obviously laughing, softly at first. Then he threw his head back into his neck and roared with laughter and he looked more like a madman than he’d ever done before and Stiles felt his confidence slowly fade.

“Oh Stiles… Stiles, Stiles. I could do all that but it would be so unbearably tedious.”

When Theo stopped laughing all the hurt and anger had vanished from his face and he was smooth and cool again, smiling at him like nothing had happened. Like his mask hadn’t just slipped the tiniest bit and Stiles was sweating.

He knew it was all falling apart and he'd probably just sacrificed Derek for five satisfying minutes of revenge.

The only person he hated more than Theo was he, Stiles, himself.

Theo was slowly drawing closer until his face was a mere five inches away from Stiles’s. Then he grabbed Stiles's left wrist and yanked it up to his face. There was something thin and silver in Theo’s right hand all of a sudden and Stiles’s stomach turned when he saw that it was a meat hook.

The kind you put into pigs and cows to pull them up into the air, suspend their tortured bodies and let them bleed out.

Theo looked at it and pressed the metal against his cheek. He closed his eyes, tilting his head a little to the right as if the hook was a fluffy pillow. He opened his eyes and looked at it again and smiled.

Then he ran it through Stiles’s hand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters relaxing in various places and positions. Theo gets a slightly longer pause than everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your support and kudos and wonderful comments! I love reading your suggestions. You guys are the best <3
> 
> edit: sorry to keep you waiting for an update - there will be a new chapter in the not so distant future :) personally, I can't wait to let Theo work on Stiles, finally, but that might just be the desire of my own twisted mind...

You’re panting.

Hot pain is radiating through your whole body but it feels right, to be running like that.

You know you can’t go very far what with you having lost lots of blood but soon, none of this will matter anymore.

It’s the perfect day to be working on your Jeep but you’re already running late.

You need to get there in time and it’s about Derek, something bad.

If the sunlight didn’t sting in your eyes so much you would be able to actually see where you’re going and – what?

What did you say?

No, it wasn’t _you_ who said it but someone else, not Derek, and he’s whispering into your ear, sweet things, saying your name over and over again.

“That’s right, Stiles. That’s good. Bleed into me.”

And there’s this guy behind him, a guy in a blue track suit, and you must be hallucinating because your Jeep is blue and you were just thinking about your Jeep. You force your eyes open and then there’s no one there but Theo and you’re not running but you wish you were.

You wish you were but you know you’re really dangling from an iron girder in some abandoned warehouse, your feet just barely touching the ground, and it was all your fault, too, because you followed Theo, then provoked him and it all seems like the well-earned punishment for being so incredibly stupid. So stupid that you’re thinking about how you must have seen this coming.

How, maybe you really wanted this. And how you feel like you’re dying even though you know Theo won’t let that happen.

He’s touching your face now, Theo, but you can’t really see him, the whole picture is out of focus, somehow. But you still can’t shake the feeling that he’s unsettled, restless. Maybe it’s the way he’s clutching that knife.

The way he is shaking your shoulders now and you smile because your body is mostly numb and it’s impossible for him to inflict any more pain anywhere.

That must be what winning feels like.

“Stiles. Just look at me!”

And he’s cursing now, kicking a chair you didn’t even know was there and you mildly wonder what he’s so upset about. Isn’t that all he wanted? He’s had his fun and maybe he will kill you now and it would be alright because that would separate the two of you forever.

It’s what Farnoelle told you, at least, back when.

It’s why suicide is always an option for you.

The room is swirling. Darkness is slowly creeping in from the edges of your vision.

The other and much better option, of course, would be

 

 

 

“Derek,” Theo said before the other had even slid through the big gate.

And it’s only when Stiles heard Derek shout out in anger and astonishment that it slowly sank into his brain that he was really there. He had found him.

God, no.

“Stiles!,” someone was howling, frantically, “Stiles! Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Stiles! What have you done to him, you sick freak?!”

“I’m the freak,” Theo said and there was this edge to his voice that made Stiles desperately struggle to lift his head. “I’m the freak? You’re the freak of nature, Derek Hale. Stealing another’s prey, it’s not what you beasts were made for. Haven’t you understood anything? _You_ listen to _me_. To me alone. You’re my creatures, mine!”

There was a brief pause in which the only audible sound was the soles of Stiles’s sneakers scraping over the concrete, trying to support his body and help him take the weight from his arms.

Then a low rumble rose from the corners of the warehouse. At first, Stiles thought it sounded like an earthquake but soon he knew it was something much, much worse.

Theo was angry. More than that – he was thirsting for blood. Derek’s blood.

And Stiles didn’t even have to force his eyes open to know that the darkness was crawling with things. Derek didn’t stand a chance.

 

Claws on the concrete, snarls and hisses and then the sickening sound of two bodies violently crushing together in mid-air.

 

“No…,” Stiles mumbled and then, “Leave him – please, don’t kill him.”

“Don’t talk,” was the curt reply. There was a tearing and pulling at the chains that held him upright and a few seconds later, his arms went slack and he came crashing down, body limp like that of a marionette cut from its strings.

He had lost any sense of direction but someone caught him and was holding him and it wasn’t Theo. Or maybe it was, Theo liked his little games. Whatever, his body was screaming with pain and the only thing he really wanted was to black out.

And he did.

 

 

The first thing he felt when he woke up was that hot palm on his upper arm. He tried to wriggle and shake it off because he was certain it was burning through his skin.

“Don’t move,” someone barked. “I’m taking away your pain.”

And then, adding in a low voice, “Even though I wish there was more I could do.”

Stiles forced his eyes open and blinked. The room around him was slowly slipping into focus.

He was at home in his own bed.

But, the warehouse and Theo and Derek.

He tried to get up but that hand, it was pressing down onto his shoulder now, keeping him in place.

“Don’t you dare and try to get up,” someone snarled.

“Derek? What the – what happened – why am I at home? Oh God, my dad, did you-”

“Calm down, Stiles. Your dad went to run some errands an hour ago. I told him you collapsed during lacrosse practice.”

“What?”

None of that made any sense.

He could see clearly now even though the colors were a little brighter than usual and he vividly remembered Theo beating the crap out of him. He broke his arm and leg and at least five of his ribs. And his flesh tearing around that meat hook, a completely novel sensation of pain.

And fire, God.

The lighter hadn’t been enough for him, this time.

He'd put a torch to his arms and legs and chest until Stiles was vomiting from the sickening smell of his own, singed skin.

So there was only one solution.

This was a trap.

This was a trap and it wasn’t really Derek sitting in his computer chair pulled up to the bed. Reaching for his hand now.

No freaking way.

That’s Derek Hale we’re talking about here. Aloof, grumpy, mind-your-own-fucking-business Derek Hale.

And Theo would never let him, Stiles, get out of that warehouse in one piece unless to let him vanish in some basement, he'd made that pretty clear.

Because Stiles, he’d been naughty. Disobedient.

Sure, Theo liked that about him, right?

But he’d gone too far. Because of Malia.

Stiles swallowed and the grip on his hand tightened.

“Is it still hurting?”

“No, not really.”

It was true. His body felt numb and fuzzy. Physically, he was almost comfortable even.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told your dad anything else. Theo made your body heal but – there was so much blood, God. And these tools he’d brought, and they were all bloody, too. I thought – for a moment, I thought…”

Stiles turned his head to look at him. Derek looked pained and somehow paler than usual.

“Is it really you?”

“What?”

“Or – are you… are you _him_ … he, I mean, are you – am I still…”

“I got you home, Stiles, after I dealt with Theo.”

Stiles felt more and more awake by the minute.

“Dealt with him? Theo – he can’t be – _dealt_ with.”

“I ripped his throat out. I would have torn him to shreds if I hadn't been convinced that you were bleeding out like a pig suspended from that girder… actually putting you up on meat hooks. Sick _freak_.”

Derek’s face was screwed up in disgust now.

“But then, when I got to you, your body was weak but healing…”

“Weird,” Stiles mumbled, “he usually likes to admire his work… he only lets me heal when he overdid it. When he…” He trailed off and fell silent.

“When you wouldn't survive otherwise, yeah, I got that,” Derek finished his sentence. And then, since it had apparently only dawned on him now: "Freaking hell, Stiles... what were you even thinking?! What on earth... why would you _seek out_ that kind of - of _torture_? Sometimes I seriously think you'd be better off locked up somewhere..."

There was a pause during which Derek just looked at him, shaking his head, and Stiles was thinking how ironic it was that Theo and Derek weren't so different when it came to their basic evaluation of Stiles's character.

But he didn’t know what to make of the look on Derek's face.

“How – how did you even,” he started but stopped because there was a knock on the door.

When Derek said “Come in,” Sheriff Stilinksi’s head appeared.

“Is he up?”

“Dad,” Stiles said, embarrassed. Why did Derek have to bring him here?

Why did Derek have to take him anywhere at all? None of this was any of his business. He could have gotten hurt. He could have gotten himself killed.

“God, son, what were you thinking? Not eating properly and then playing lacrosse even though you caught the flu. I’m glad Scott called Derek to get you home. I’m starting to like this pack thing.”

He smiled at Derek.

“Thank you for bringing my son home to me – once again. This time, you should stay for dinner. I was thinking – pizza?”

Derek nodded politely.

“Thank you, sir.”

Stiles was staring at him, then at his dad, then at Derek again.

What did he mean, bring him home _again_?

As soon as his dad had left them alone again, his steps moving slowly and heavily down the stairs, Stiles turned to Derek.

“What do you mean, Scott called you, and what the hell were you guys talking about, are you sworn into some kind of secret society or what, and what do you mean, you ripped Theo’s throat out? Are you crazy? You know he can’t be killed right? He’s not a werewolf. How did you even manage to get out of there in one piece.”

Derek had crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Glad you’re feeling better. I’ll answer that in reverse order. Don’t underestimate me, Stiles. I was just stronger than Theo.”

“What? What are you even talking- Derek, you were never stronger than anybody - like _ever_!”

“The puddle of blood I left Theo in would beg to differ,” Derek said, glowering. “I think I know what he is, Stiles, and even though he can’t die it will take him time to heal completely. And, you're welcome, by the way, for saving your dumb teenage ass. Again. Alright, secondly, your dad was referring to the last time I carried you home like a hurt puppy. And what I said about Scott is made up. He can’t know. Ever. This is between you, me and Theo.”

Stiles blinked a few times and finally said “What?”

Derek rolled his eyes and got up.

“Just rest, Stiles. You’ll stay home for another day or two and remember – the rest of the pack can’t know. This is way out of their league. So when - _if_ \- you meet Theo in school ever again you have to pretend like nothing happened. Can you do that?”

“Er yeah…,” Stiles muttered, avoiding Derek’s eyes. “Sure, why not…”

“Ok. Good. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Deaton. He might be able to help me.”

Stiles let himself fall back on the bed.

Who died and made Derek king of monsters? When he last checked, Derek was a beta and not a particularly strong one. Fast maybe, yeah, but still. Too upset and angry to fight properly. Too damaged to be a cold-blooded killer. Or not damaged enough, maybe.

“And, Stiles…,” Derek said, hand already on the door. “I’m sorry about Malia.”

“Don’t be,” Stiles muttered into his pillow without even knowing why.

 

 

 

He was staring at the bloodied floor, a feeling of disbelief in his stomach as his throat was slowly knitting back together.

He was freezing and hurting and didn't quite succeed in drowing out these sensations. Didn't quite get to enjoy them.

But he couldn't and wouldn't abandon this body. Not unless absolutely necessary.

Then a rhythmic clicking on the concrete told him that someone was coming.

Red heels stepped into his vision and a voice was saying, “Don’t lick the blood, Paws, ugh, _that is disgusting_. No, not there! Come here, mummy is taking care of you.”

When she bent down to pick up her puppy, her hair swiped through the puddle in front of his face, soaking up the color, turning an even brighter shade of red.

“Lydia,” he choked, “Come to mock my demise? Move two inches closer and I’ll shred your white, skinny legs. Nice shoes, though.”

He was looking up at her now.

The furry dog in her arms was panting, its little red rubber tongue sticking out.

“I just wanted to get a good look at you,” she said and then screwed up her nose, “and with Derek Hale beating the crap out of you like that you do look pretty pathetic. Yup, you'll be here for a while. Here or wherever we put you, am I right, Paws?”

“What do you know about that?,” Theo hissed but Lydia had already turned around and was tiptoeing back to the large gate.

“What do you know about Derek? Lydia! _Lydia_!”

But she left him lying there and he knew it would be days until he would be able to walk out of here again and claim Stiles for good. Until then he was doomed to replay that moment in his head again and again.

That moment Derek Hale’s eyes had flared a deep and luminous green and he’d cut him, Lucifer, down, just like that.

Doomed, he was Doomed. _He_ was doomed.

Theo threw back his head, smashing it into the concrete floor, and let out a gargling laugh that sent thick drops of blood flying through the air.

“Well played, Phaniel, old friend. Well played…”

 

 

***

 

 

When Stiles opened his eyes again, the room lay in darkness.

Derek was gone but pressing down on his legs, breathing through its tiny, open mouth, was a bunny, blood trickling down its fur and ears and pooling on the comforter already.

Stiles let out a sigh. Ah, great. So Theo would be well again soon and, man, he really had a thing for bunnies. Stiles blamed that English teacher in fourth grade who had made them read _Alice in Wonderland_. Zombie heralds. Harbingers of zombification. Haha.

Theo’s humor had always, majorly, sucked like that.

And whatever Derek had done to him – had managed to do to him – it must have been luck.

Sheer dumb luck.

And the next time wouldn’t be pretty.

“Come here you disgusting little fucker…,” he mumbled and held out his hand. The bunny focused on him with its blind eyes and started moving mechanically, traipsing through the fluffy landscape on Stiles's bed.

“You smell,” Stiles said when the bunny put its mangy nose to his fingertips inhaling audibly now and this rattling sound, it could really make your stomach turn because you know it’s from the shreds of its windpipe smacking into the surrounding flesh.

“You’re digusting but that’s ok. I feel exactly the way you look.”

He pressed down softly onto the dark brown and red fur, ignoring the way it felt slimy and icky and stuck to his fingers. The bunny ducked its head and flattened its lacerated ears so Stiles could stroke and pat its whole body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

 

 

***

 

 

There were no visible wounds on his body and no matter how long he looked himself over in the mirror he couldn't find an external mark to match the fragmented memories of blazing pain caught in his brain like fish in a net. It was so weird because he was incredibly tired, and his body was hurting even though he was supposed to be healed and whole.

When he woke up the next time, Derek was unloading videogames onto his feet. Stiles wrinkled his eyebrows and picked up the one nearest to him, GTA 8, and turned it over in his hands.

"Where did you get these?"

Derek glared at him.

Of course he did.

"I bought them? Stop asking questions like an idiot."

"You-"

"Some of these are older but they should all run on your Xbox."

"Wow er... thanks, Derek, ehm... Scott's gonna come over later, he'll be - er, he'll love these."

There was a pause during which Stiles was looking through the games and Derek, apparently, was hesitating because when he opened his mouth again, he said, "I - was thinking - I haven't played in a long time but I used to play Halo a lot and I thought _we_ -"

He trailed off, then quickly turned around and would have walked out of the room without so much as a goodbye when Stiles said, "Great idea, Scott sucks at Halo. When will you be back?"

He was looking at Derek, waiting for him to react and wondering how this dude could look so much like a Calvin Klein model and yet, be so socially awkward. Looks and social skills are not really related, sure, but Stiles had always assumed that being blessed with a body and face like this would also, somehow, give you a healthy sense of self-confidence.

"Whatever," Derek said now, rolling his eyes, and Stiles felt stupid. So he'd mistaken Derek's obvious desire to get out of here fast with the wish to stay and play Halo.

Story of his life.

Still, that kind of misjudgement had let to a ton of awesome post-Halo sex with Malia.

"What are you laughing about?"

"Mh?"

Stiles wiped the goofy grin off his face - the one that always, inevitably, showed whenever he thought about sex - and reminded himself that they were broken up. For good, probably. She hadn't even called once during the past days and he only knew she was ok because Scott was keeping him updated on what was going on at school.

Theo, apparently, hadn't shown once during the whole week, so no problem there, at least.

Derek was still looking at Stiles, eyebrows wrinkled. Stiles knew the smell of monster-bunny was lingering in his room but he'd flipped the comforter the last time he got up and Derek obviously didn't care about the stench. He'd merely remarked that Stiles's room smelled worse than usual but that he wasn't surprised, what with Stiles being there all day now.

Rude, right?

Theo, on the other hand, had created a whole series of zombified bunnies when Stiles had been about eight or nine years old. He'd forced Stiles to dress up in one of his mom's flower pattern dresses that was way too big for him, put the matching purse in his hands and purple stilettos on his little feet, which had led to a really awkward conversation about gender identity, the first of several, and ensuing scolding because when Theo had placed one of his things on his arm, it had ruined the dress.

You look so coy, Stiles, Theo had purred and adroitly decorated Stiles's face with lipstick, way too accurately for a nine-year-old.

Coy, coy, he'd cawed.

While he hadn't exactly known what it meant, Stiles had immediately loathed that word and was glad it had since returned to whatever Renaissance play or novel Theo had picked it out of. Or, come to think about it, Theo hadn't been up here for a while since the Middle Ages, so who knew where he'd picked that up exactly. Actually, there was a lot of interesting stuff Theo could tell him but when they were together all he wanted to do was make Stiles scream and writhe and sob . As if all the centuries he'd left his mark on had only been the prequel to this. To him, Stiles.

Stiles was so lost in thought that he only snapped back to reality when Derek cleared his throat.

And then it was to say, "Derek, do you think I'm coy?"

" _What_? Stiles, why are you such a fucking weirdo?"

This silenced him for good and, mildly insulted, he slumped back onto the pillows and turned over to face the wall.

"Later, grandpa."

And yes, this time Stiles could practically _hear_ Derek roll his eyes.

 

 

He didn't really know what it was but something about him just kept pushing Derek's buttons and, quite frankly, despite all the shit they'd been through together, Derek's anger still sort of scared him.

Ok, scared is a pretty strong word. Let's say, Stiles had a healthy respect for his moods.

Scott was more powerful, yes, and Theo, don't get me started, but Derek had these moments when Stiles was reminded of the fact that he was a born wolf, less human than Theo even. Plus, he could still make him almost crap his pants when he flashed his eyes at him over the dinner table.

"Lord in - stop doing that for God's sake! _Jeeezus_ Christ... If you're so annoyed why do you even come here every day."

Derek was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed in trademark-Derek aloofness.

"You said it before. I'm the pack grandpa. So eat your fucking peas."

Stiles glared at him but he did start shoveling the remaining vegetables into his mouth, not bothering to chew more than once because he knew Derek hated that.

This was unbelievably and ridiculously immature. All of this. And a little surreal.

"Could you not be a pain-in-the-ass teenager for one evening?," Derek muttered before returning to staring at Stiles in silence.

"Only if you drop being a freakin' pain-in-the-ass-cree," Stiles started but, luckily for him, was interrupted by the front door flying open.

"Hellooo, Stiles?!," Scott hollered and, apparently, that evening Stiles's whole peer group had unanimously decided to behave like cartoon characters.

When Scott appeared in the kitchen a second later, however, Stiles immediately knew what was up. Scott was positively glowing and there was this huge grin on his face.

"Oh. My _God_ , you gotta be fucking kidding me" Derek said and got up.

"Where are you going?," Stiles called after him.

"Spending the night with grown-ups."

They heard the front door and then the engine of Derek's car.

"Old sourwolf," Stiles muttered. "You hungry?"

"No." Scott beamed at him.

"So you and Kira did it, huh...," Stiles said and got up. His ankle still hurt but it was nice, not feeling raw and broken for a change.

Almost right again.

"Yeah...," Scott said, grinning.

"So, good, huh..."

"Yeah..."

"You know, sometimes I sort of get Derek. Dude, you're so high on endorphines, you're almost floating..."

Scott's face fell a little and he said, "Sorry. Mh, you and Malia...?"

"She's gone, yeah. I told you before, it was gonna happen..."

There was this pang every time he thought about her but he wasn't particularly heartbroken. Which was odd.

She'd been his first girlfriend, his first real love, yes?

So he sort of should be.

"Still won't tell me what happened?"

Stiles shook his head, "Nope. Sorry. Can't do."

"But it does have to do with," Scott was saying now, carefully, "with - Theo?"

Stiles's movements stiffened a little as he scraped the leftovers from his plate and then put it in the dishwasher.

"I don't like him," he said, unnecessarily. Then he walked out of the room to set up his Xbox, avoiding Scott's eyes.

"Stiles, please... you're driving me crazy here. I feel like - there is this world of stuff happening between you and Theo and you won't let me in on it. You even trust Derek more than me."

He sounded hurt and it seemed like his good mood was fading. He'd followed Stiles into the living room and watched him clear the sofa of potato chip crumbs and napkins and a brown leather wallet.

"Ok, I didn't want to do this..."

Stiles spun around when he heard a low growl. Scott's eyes were glowing red.

"Oh no, buddy, no freaking way..."

Stiles was slowly taking a few steps back, withdrawing behind the sofa.

Scott wouldn't dare go full alpha on him - or, would he?

"Derek's right, I'm supposed to take care of you. You leave me no choice, man, I'm sorry..."

"Forgot my-," another voice suddenly said and then several things happened all at once.

For one, Scott had actually jumped - Stiles couldn't freaking believe it - towards the sofa, had actually hurled himself at him, but Derek who was the master of surprise appearances had grabbed him by the neck and flung him into the wall. The blow reverberated through the whole house and it wasn't the first time that Stiles worried the crash might cause the whole thing to collapse.

Scott picked himself up rubbing his head and then he was just staring at Derek who stood there, fangs and claws bared, panting way too heavily.

But not like he'd been exhausting himself before but like he was really mad.

Preparing to fight.

Scott's eyes were still red and he opened his mouth but he was too shocked to say anything.

Derek craned his neck to the right as if to check for Stiles and it was then, the very moment Derek's eyes found his, that he saw it and it sent his thoughts racing.

What in the name of all the supernatural freaks of nature _and_ Gerard's Bestiary was that.

Derek's eyes were glowing, yes.

But they weren't yellow.

Not even a little.

They shone a bright and piercing green.

Mechanically, Stiles took a step to the right, just to make sure.

Just to check if this wasn't, perhaps, due to the lighting or the weird brownish shade of the living room wallpaper.

"What the...," he breathed and Scott was saying, "Derek? Derek?" and Stiles knew excatly why.

Because it seemed like Derek was only half there, like he was in full beast mode, and he wouldn't retract his claws or fangs.

"Derek, I'm - I'm your alpha, why would you-," Scott started but when moved a step towards the sofa, Derek let out a low snarl.

"Ok, alright, I'm not going to hurt Stiles and I hadn't meant to, ok?," Scott said, apparently understanding something that Stiles didn't.

What on earth did that have to do with him?

But it sure as hell had something to do with Theo.

Scott let his eyes switch back to brown and he held up his hands, fully human now, again.

Stiles knew he should probably say something soothing to Derek, relieve the tension somehow, but the other looked so - _wild_ that it made all the hairs on his neck stick up. And, lately, it was easy to kick him into panic mode so he just stayed where he was, unable to say anything.

For a few more seconds none of them moved but then, slowly, Derek relaxed his shoulders. His fangs clicked back into his jaw and claws melted into his flesh again, as his features smoothed and humanized. When the luminous green had faded and all there was left was the familiar hazel in Derek's eyes, Stiles and Scott simultaneously let out a deep breath.

"Derek, what the hell?," Stiles said and quickly circled the sofa, agitated as hell now and, yes, his voice might just have risen an octave but you don't get how wired he's already being all the time as it is.

Stupid adrenaline.

"What on earth was that?!"

"What on earth was what," Derek said, slightly frowning.

"Your eyes," Scott said and Stiles was deeply grateful because he wouldn't have gotten anything more sensible than 'what the hell' out anytime soon anyway.

"They're green?"

Derek blinked.

"No, they're not."

"Ah-hu, oh hell yes they are," Stiles said, wildly bobbing his head up and down.

Derek was grimacing and shooting him a look as if wanting to say: _Stiles, would you behave like a real person once in your life?_

As if what Scott had just pointed out was so irrelevant that he might just completely ignore the boy ever said anything.

"Green. G - R - E - _green_."

"First of all, Stiles, it's called hazel, thank you, you can google it. Second of all, Scott what the hell was that? You would have logged into Stiles's memory if I hadn't intervened?"

"Yeah, what's up with that?!," Stiles started, turning to Scott now. This conversation was seriously giving him whiplash.

"Don't change the subject," Scott said quickly. "Did you even realize what you were doing?"

"Protecting the pack," Derek said but Stiles thought that, surely, Derek must have heard how lousy that answer sounded, too.

"I'm the alpha," Scott said and he let his irises bleed red, only for a second. "And we agreed that we have to find out what's up with him because, seriously Stiles, you look like hell."

Stiles was staring at his feet trying not to _ha_ at that involuntarily perfect comparison.

"So, you suggested that yourself Derek, last week, remember?"

Stiles's head snapped back up and he looked at Derek but Derek avoided his gaze.

"Unless...," Scott took a step toward them. "Unless - you son of a bitch. You found it out on your own and didn't tell me."

The ensuing, awkward silence was enough proof that he'd hit the nail on the head and, agitated, Scott kept going.

"And it does have to do with Theo, I _knew_ it. And probably something about Theo and Malia, too."

Scott could have these lucid moments that Stiles thought utterly terrifying. He didn't want his best friend to read him that perfectly. Yeah, he'd always wanted and expected Scott to be there for him unconditionally and he was aware that this was sort of contradicting the other thing. But he'd had a friend once who'd been in on every single thought of his, a really really great friend, and it hadn't ended well for him.

He'd ended up being body-snatched. Hollowed out, right?

And Lucifer was what he'd gotten instead so you just don't mix certain things, is what I'm saying.

"Guys," Stiles started. He was really tired all of a sudden.

"I'll hit the sack. Derek... fill Scott in on - everything, will you?"

"What?," Derek said for what was probably the five thousandth time that evening and Scott was already looking deeply worried again. "You alright, Stiles?"

Stiles just nodded and shuffled up the stairs.

He'd hated sneaking around like that anyway. Behind his dad's back ok, it's what you're supposed to do when you're a teenager, sneak around your old man's back, but it was different with Scott.

He wanted him to know and, maybe, understand. But that might do stuff to Scott's beliefs, opinions, his whole world view. Damage him, even if he wasn't the one ending up burned and sobbing on an almost daily basis, obviously. But it was still a lot to digest and Derek could do it because he had no faith in humanity, none whatsoever, and he was this gloomy, cynical guy who would draw a twisted sense of gratification out of messed-up stuff like that. But Scott?

So he really, really, didn't want him to know.

 

 

 

   

But then, things have to go a certain way.

Take their course, if you would.

You know that and since you're in control of this story you would be thrilled about it, too, if this wasn't one of these particularly uncomfortable scenes. The ones that you have to do because they're part of the movie but while you're doing it you're despising it and you forget about the whole reason.

The larger picture.

But then this girl, she just walks right into the shot when you least expect it, her heels click down onto the concrete exactly in the middle of your vision and she just confirms everything you ever believed in.

Gets you grounded again, despite herself.

So you know where you're at, exactly.

She was here yesterday and the day before and before that. But this is different. This time she brought you that ticket you need to finally get out of here, and move on. A deal.

A plot twist.

It's not like you can get up anytime soon or even speak properly, because, yes, he's shredded you that bad, you'll admit that, turned you inside out most effectively.

This now, though.

It's in the books, yes, but they won't see it coming.

And that's what makes it glorious.

It seems like a cheap trick but, sometimes, that's just how things are wired.

So you turn your head on the concrete, the blood long dried and dark and flaky, cheek scraping over the grainy surface, and you make a point of first twisting the corners of your lips into a gentle smile and then looking up at her and watch how, appearing slowly on her face now, is that smile of yours, like a moth batting its wings together for the first time, finally.


	11. DEREK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Derek met Stiles.

“Derek Hale,” the man said and it wasn’t a question.

Derek didn’t look up. He was on all fours, shaking uncontrollably but the tears just wouldn’t come.

“Hum,” the man said. He was tugging at the sleeves of his navy blue suit. They were way too long. The whole thing was ill-fitted, too big and saggy and that color – but Derek didn’t notice any of these things. He was staring at the concrete and the screams, God, the screams. He would be hearing them for the rest of his life.

His chest was hurting like hell.

“Hum,” the man said again, “I’m sorry, boy. Your parents... I’m sorry. You see, I couldn’t have saved them, too, wasn’t allowed to, that is. I’m not supposed to interfere ok? Just.... ok? Sorry.”

His bright blue eyes were gliding up and down the teenager’s bare arms.

“That’s, er, some serious wounds you have there... third degree, yes. Ouch.”

He put his fingertips to Derek’s left shoulder, softly, and it was only when the singed skin started healing, faster than usual even for a born wolf, that Derek seemed to realize he was not alone. As the raw flesh was being sucked back into his body he raised his head.

“I saved you,” the man stated matter-of-factly.

“....thank you,” Derek mouthed mechanically without really understanding what was going on. They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t. His mom and dad, his siblings, his whole family.

Then he was throwing up again and the man in the blue suit looked like he wanted to be comforting but didn’t know how. He stiffly patted his shoulder twice then withdrew his hand and continued to simply look at Derek.

“So I saved you,” he started again, “and now you owe me. Correct?”

Derek wiped his mouth. He felt like dying.

“I’m Phaniel.” The man was apparently desperately trying to strike up a conversation. Derek just stared at him.

“I’m Phaniel and I was the one who dragged you out of the flames. You would – actually, _should_ – be dead right now.”

“Like my family,” Derek whispered. No tears yet but the recognition finally, slowly sinking into his brain.

Too late, it was too late.

“Like your family, yes. Again, sorry about that. So what was I was saying – ah, yes. I have a favor to ask...” He paused.

Derek didn’t answer so the man just went on.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now and I think you won’t mind it too much. See, you really are a born guardian, boy, yes yes.” He was beaming at Derek now and Derek started thinking that whoever this guy was, he was apparently insane.

“Anyway – I need you to do me a favor. The Sheriff’s boy, Stiles – you know him, right?”

Derek looked up at Phaniel. Then he mumbled, “Yes.”

“Perfect. I knew that, of course. You have an eye on him, ok?”

“....what?”

“Have an eye on him, er, get him out of trouble, watch his steps – just make sure no one kills him. Alright? It might involve getting monsters off his back – like the one you ripped apart a few weeks ago. Understood?”

“Whatever,” Derek said and the man clapped his hands, then squatted down in front of him so he could look into Derek’s eyes who was still on his hands and knees. He didn’t feel like moving anytime soon. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

When Phaniel raised his right hand, Derek started and his eyes suddenly flared yellow.

“Good,” Phaniel said and smiled warmly. “Perfect.”

He put his index finger onto Derek’s forehead and Derek felt a soothing vogue of warmth spread across his whole face.

What he didn’t see of course was how the yellow of his eyes was slowly turning a bright shade of green.

Phaniel’s smile widened.

“Wonderful,” he said. “It won’t stay like that, of course, only, you know, when you need it...”

Derek stared back at him.

“Don’t forget your promise, yes? Look after Stiles, alright? You’ll be doing a great job and with a little help from me it won’t even get you killed.”

Phaniel rose to his feet.

He waved at Derek and vanished.

Derek blinked.

What the –

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Getting killed sounded pretty good right now.

After what felt like an eternity he slowly rose from the ground. His whole body was aching.

Derek turned his back to the forest and to the threads of smoke rising above the dark treeline. He felt – nothing. He was completely empty.

In the distance, the sound of fire truck sirens.

 

 

***

 

 

“So who was this dude?”

“I don’t know – he never told me.”

“So that’s how you survived the fire? Man... heavy stuff. And you accepted the deal?”

Derek just shrugged.

Scott got up from the sofa and started pacing the room.

“So the hordes of monsters... all of this happened before – and Stiles, he always knew. About – everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Scott said, more and more agitated. “You and me. Werewolves. The supernatural. And he never told me. Man, I would be so angry at him right now, if I weren’t so – fucking worried.”

“I don’t think Stiles knew about werewolves. But he did know about something – much bigger. About Theo.”

“Ok, so what does that dude-”

“Phaniel.”

“Phaniel, right, what does he have to do with Theo? Wait – is he Theo?”

Derek grimaced.

“No? Scott, haven’t you been listening? Or are you being deliberately stupid?”

Derek jumped up from the sofa. Man, this was really getting on his nerves. Why couldn’t Stiles just sort that out himself?

However, the thought of a miserable Stiles lying awake upstairs in his bed right now soothed him again and he said, “Lucifer.”

“What?”

“Lucifer.”

“What?”

Derek took a deep breath. This was going to take forever.

“Theo. Is Lucifer.”

Scott blinked.

“So... you're saying - he's been lying about his name?"

Derek took another deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. This was unbelievably slow, even for Scott.

“Theo is not a werewolf – has never been. He’s a demon. The king of demons to be precise. He’s the devil.”

“The devil.”

“The devil. Satan, Lucifer, Moloch – however you want to call him.”

Scott looked at him – then started laughing.

“You almost got me, man. Derek, seriously, this is not funny. I’m really worried about Stiles.”

“You think I’m joking,” Derek said, dryly, and when Scott saw his face he immediately stopped laughing.

“Do you even know what that means?,” Derek continued, only barely containing his anger now. “Or do I have to spell that out for you as well?”

“But – what? You – seriously? The devil? As in.... the Bible?”

“Or the Qur’an, yes. Actually all belief systems have a concept of evil.”

“Fire and brimstone?”

“Possibly.”

Scott looked as if he still wasn't quite sure whether Derek wasn’t mocking him after all. He did have a fucked-up sense of humor.

“Burn for your sins and all that?”

Derek shrugged.

“All I know is that guy’s a freaking pain in the ass...”

He turned to the door.

“Ok, since you know what we're dealing with here now – have fun.”

“Huh? Where are you going?”

“Home,” Derek just said and his hand was already on the doorknob when Scott said, “What are we going to do about Stiles? We have to find Theo and finish him!”

“Didn’t you listen? He’s immortal. He can’t be finished,” Derek just said and opened the door. “Anyway, since you're a way better babysitter than me, it’s finally no longer my business. So have fun.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! We’re pack!” Ok, maybe he was yelling a little but seriously, what was up with Derek’s attitude?

Derek pushed the door shut again and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, we’re pack but I’m sick of nursing teenage boys with a death wish back to health. So, keep me posted about the next pack meeting and say hi to Stiles.”

Scott opened his mouth to yell at him but a voice from the stairway said quietly, “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

Stiles walked around the corner and then just stood there, looking at them, face devoid of expression. How come Scott hadn’t heard him come down the stairs? He had the strong feeling that Stiles had been listening for a while. And... had he been that _pale_ before? A sudden memory of Void Stiles sent shivers down Scott’s back.

“I _never_ asked you to do _anything_ for me,” Stiles continued through grit teeth and Scott understood that, for whatever reason, his best friend was furious. So much so in fact that his hands were trembling.

“Oh, sure, because you can perfectly take care of yourself. Well, excuse my interference,” Derek said.

Scott was looking from Stiles to Derek and back again, not quite understanding what was happening. He was certain that the sole reason for Derek’s still being here was his being worried about Stiles – so what was that all about?

“If I’m being such a burden, why don’t you get the hell out of here?,” Stiles said, his voice now shaking with anger.

Derek looked at Stiles with surprise and then rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘ _Teenagers_.’

It was enough to tip Stiles over the edge.

“I don’t care about your – hallucinations – or weird dudes in blue track suits or your freaking arrogance. Just stay the hell away from me! And yeah, maybe like that you’ll be finally able to fucking stop _whining_ about _everything_!”

They were glowering at each other in silence for a few seconds.

Then Stiles moved. His face distorted with anger he stormed out the door. When he rushed past them, Scott could see that there were red specks of anger on his cheeks and – was that tears?

What the hell had just happened?

“Infantile...,” Derek muttered. “And the attention span of a squirrel, even when he’s eavesdropping. Who said anything about a track suit?”

 

 

A few minutes later Derek was steering his car through the streets, one hand on the wheel, the other kneading his neck.

He hadn’t meant to get so – _angry_.

Why did Stiles always have to take everything personally?

He hadn’t necessarily meant to say that _Stiles_ was a burden. And even if – why would the boy react like that?

“GRAAAAH!!” Derek hit the wheel with his fists.

And why the freaking hell was he still thinking about that?!

Yes, it wasn’t Stiles’s fault, it was this Phaniel guy. He had done something to him back when. He’d dragged his half-conscious body out of the collapsing Hale house, touched his forehead and – _messed_ with him. Somehow.

It had struck him just this afternoon. He’d been looking down onto Stiles’s sleeping face and – all of a sudden – there’d been that image in his head. Of himself bending down. Putting -

No.

Derek was wildly shaking his head.

It was high time that everything was getting back to normal.

Stiles was Scott’s freaking problem again now, finally. Rid of one burden. He certainly wasn’t the right person to hold Stiles’s hand right now, Scott wouldn’t fail his best friend and he, Derek, would take care of Theo.

When he’d returned to the warehouse Theo’s body had been gone. Derek had picked up the scent of different people and he was pretty sure that at least one of them knew into which filthy hole that thing had crawled to lick his wounds.

He would start with the most obvious suspect.

 

 

“Derek?,” Lydia said before Derek had even thought about ringing the doorbell.

Yep, that girl was still creepy as fuck.

He glared at her for a second. Then he just walked past her into the living room. Lydia frowned.

“No, it’s not a bad time at all, please go ahead and come in.”

She followed him inside, then picked up a box of sweets and offered them to Derek who simply ignored the gesture.

“Where is Lucifer?”

“Tea?”

“No, _thank_ you,” Derek said. He was getting angry again.

“Is this about Stiles?,” Lydia said with a sigh.

“Wha- no, it’s about Spongebob Squarepants, _yes_ , of _course_ it’s about Stiles!”

Derek was massaging his temples. He needed a new pack asap.

“I knew you’re the Spongebob type,” Lydia said with a knowing smile that almost made Derek yell at her. Lydia of course could sense the tension.

“And what’s bitten you?”

“Lydia, please don’t play dumb. I know you’ve been in the warehouse. I picked up your scent and-”

He stopped and turned around.

A furry ball was sitting on the mauve sofa and was currently vomiting into the spaces between the pillows.

“What the – hell is that? Lydia, it smells awful.”

“That’s just Paws, my cute little doggy-dog,” she said, picking the thing up and hugging it.

“Whatever that is, it’s not a dog,” Derek said, grimacing. “Lydia, you know that, right?”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Scott was right, you’re a hopeless pessimist.”

“Are you insane?”

“And concerning your – was that a question? Yes, I was there. Yes, I talked to Theo. You did a good job tearing him to shreds, I must say. Then I turned around, walked out again and got - - _this_ cute pair of heels.”

She lifted her right foot but Derek didn’t even bother to look down.

“So you don’t deny that you’ve been helping Theo?”

Lydia put her puppy down next to her blue glittering heels.

“Helping him? Of course, I haven’t been helping him.”

She crossed her arms.

“He’s was up to something, an idiot could see that, and then it wasn't hard to track him down. No offense but none of you is particularly sneaky,” she added haughtily.

“What-”

“Could you talk a little faster, I have a mani-pedi at five.”

She was already stuffing her smelly mop of a dog into a handbag that matched her shoes.

Derek stared at her. This girl was impossible.

“If you want me to tell you anything you’ll have to come with me.”

She grabbed her keys from the counter, threw a glance back at Derek and added, “Taking a little care of your nails doesn’t hurt, you know? You’re not a cave man...”

“Unbelievable,” Derek finally managed to say but Lydia was already out the door. It was easier to get a clear answer from a Sphinx. Stiles used to say that Lydia couldn’t help it but Derek couldn’t shake the feeling that she was doing it on purpose. What on earth had the boy ever seen in her?

He snorted. Stiles was simply too easy to impress, horny teenager that he was.

And what’s a mani-pedi?

Just when he’d decided to get back to Lydia later, maybe when he could bring Scott, he heard Lydia’s voice from the car, “Wait a second, Pawniel honey, Mommy has to put on your seat belt...”

 

So... ah hell, then he’d have to find out what a mani-pedi was.

But it certainly didn’t sound good.

 

 

Why couldn’t he just have called Lydia from his car?

The fumes from the nail polish had almost made him faint but at least he’d been able to extract valuable information.

Lydia wasn’t the traitor. She might not be completely conscious of it but she’d even been helping to protect Stiles. Her story had been plausible, too.

How she’d known that there was something wrong about Theo from the very start.

How she’d been keeping an eye on him and quickly realized that he was just _playing_ at being a werewolf.

How she’d found out that she could track Theo even better when keeping one of his monsters close by and, as she had stressed with a sweet smile, “Meditation does the trick. Makes you forget about the smell, you know?”

Derek had to give it to her – he’d been impressed. She was incredibly smart after all. Not like Stiles but still, very useful.

And then she’d met Phaniel.

Unaware of who he really was, she had immediately trusted him, had naturally taken to helping him. Being a banshee she couldn’t interfere, of course, but she had become his informant.

Derek wasn’t sure if he should be glad about this particular piece of information. It opened up more questions than it answered. For instance, when he’d asked her about the name of her dog – _thing_ – whatever it was – and Lydia had merely blinked and said that she would love to get navy blue nails this time with little silver stars of glitter, thank you, and if they didn’t have navy, royal blue would do as well. Clearly, it was a _completely_ different color, but a girl has to make sacrifices.

So much for an answer on why she’d named her pet Pawniel or Paws (“Because he is so _cute_ you just want to eat him up, don’t you just want to eat him up?,” which Derek had politely declined).

Paws hadn’t made any valuable contribution to the conversation either except for making strange noises in Lydia’s closed handbag that sounded as if – Derek was pretty sure – he was tearing himself apart in there.

Which had left Derek wondering about Phaniel.

 

So the guy was still here and, despite everything, trying to look out for Stiles.

Maybe he didn’t suck completely as a guardian angel after all.

 

 

***

 

Derek had buried his hands in his pockets. He was kicking a crumpled coke can around and chewing on his lower lip. Yeah, it hadn’t been the first time he’d gotten into trouble but why did Collins have to give his dad a call? His mom would probably ground him for the rest of the year.

Whatever.

The can rebounded from the tires of a parked car. A cat scampered from under it and disappeared into the nearest bushes. Derek threw her a dark glare.

He’d get his revenge on Collins sooner or later. Not that the other kids would mind. That guy was an asshole. Peter called him the worst principal ever to happen to Beacon Hills High.

Maybe Derek could get his mom to yell at him for no longer than an hour if he explained to her that he hadn’t meant for it to explode into Collins’s _face_. Not that she’d believe him. She never did.

“Whoa!”

He’d been so lost in thought he’d run into a boy who’d been standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring into the air.

He was picking himself up now and said “s-sorry,” with a high voice. A grade schooler, he couldn’t be more than seven, maybe eight, years old. Or a girl, it could also be – no, definitely a boy, even though his young face was as pretty as any girl’s Derek had ever seen. The knees of the boy’s pants were worn out and his shoes, pants and jacket were caked with mud as if he’d taken a short cut through a swamp.

He was looking at Derek now, his big brown eyes wide open, cheeks flushed.

“You hurt?,” Derek said and, he couldn’t help himself, smiled at the boy who quickly shook his head.

“Lincoln elementary?,” he added because the boy was still staring at him as if he was an apparition.

“Y-yes,” he finally managed to say and then, a little breathlessly, “He abolished slavery.”

“What?”

“Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery,” the boy stated as if reciting from a book.

“Yeah, I guess he did,” Derek said, frowning.

“He said all men are equal but he supported the killing of Indians because they were in the way. Isn’t that weird?”

Derek blinked. “Yeah...,” he said, slowly, “strikes me as a little hypocritical.”

The boy nodded wildly, “That’s what I said but Mrs. Johnson said I shouldn’t say that and then she gave me a blue letter for mom and dad.”

He hung his head and stared at his muddy shoes.

“And that’s why you were playing down by the old factory instead of going home?”

The boy’s head snapped back up. He looked really guilty now.

“Don’t tell my dad,” he said pleadingly. “Please.”

“Calm down, I don’t even know who your dad is.”

“He’s working in the Sheriff’s office, John Stilinski. I’m Stiles. My name is really long and hard to spell so everyone just calls me Stiles. We live on East Columbia Boulevard.”

“You shouldn’t tell me that. I’m a complete stranger.”

“But you asked me,” the boy protested.

Derek couldn’t help himself, he had to laugh. What a weird little kid.

“I didn’t really ask you. And you should definitely try and get rid of the mud on your clothes before you get home.”

He nodded goodbye but the boy, clutching his backpack tightly, came running after him, talking like a waterfall.

“What’s your name? My father probably knows you, someday he’s going to be the Sheriff and he already knows _everyone_.”

Derek sighed.

Awesome. Now he would have to try and shake that kid off.

“I’m Derek. Derek Hale.”

 

 

***

 

 

Derek smiled.

That kid.

Stiles probably didn’t even remember that first encounter.

But enough of that. He could very well do without remembering that particular sensation that had suddenly crept over his stomach when the young Stiles had beamed at him and told him he wanted a leather jacket just like his. Not that this was hard to explain either: it had simply felt good to be admired and listened to for a change after his teachers and parents did practically nothing but yell at him.

Derek threw a glance at his smartphone.

He was having way too many flashbacks recently.

Find Theo and finish the job, that should be number one priority now. Then he could finally leave this town for good and never look back again.

 

So... someone had taken Lucifer’s body and if it wasn’t Lydia... who was it?


	12. MALIA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Lucifer met Stiles.

She carefully lifts your head to pour water into your mouth and you’re almost moved by the utterly human gesture.

Your head is in her lap and you look up at her beautiful face. Her beautiful, human face. It makes sense of course, beauty just lies in that gene pool. It’s one of the reasons you chose this body in the first place, yes?

You had to send your creatures away because they made her nauseous but they do not serve any particular use anyway. They’re just for play.

It’s with her help that you slowly sit up again now. Your body is aching but it’s an almost pleasant sensation. Your inner organs have long healed and your skin is slowly, seamlessly knitting back together, too.

The rage that had built up in your chest though. It makes your blood boil whenever you think about it. But it’s not important.

It’s not important because you will kill Derek Hale.

First, you will cut the tendons in his legs. So he can scream and writhe but not run away. So he would still have the illusion of strength, of being able to get out of it on his own.

That is essential.

They will grow back of course, so cut them again and again.

Torture 101.

Don’t spoil the game with your first move. It’s painful but bearable.

Foreplay.

Then proceed with his skin. Just scratch at it a little bit at first, so he’ll know what is coming and, despite himself, he’ll start being afraid.

Savor the smell of fear, the look of panic creeping over his face.

You can use a little magic now to hold him in place. He’s superhuman too, after all.

It’s only fair.

Either you continue on his skin or, if you want to get a little more creative, you can twist his ankles and wrists.

But listen.

It’s very important that you do this slowly. You want to wait for that moist cracking noise. It’s your _raison d’être_.

And the way his eyeballs would be gradually pouring out of his sockets by now, as if he couldn’t believe you’re going through with it. And with that amount of diligence, too.

Of tenderness.

Sometimes that’s what drives them even crazier than the pain. Their incapability to understand what you are and why you’re doing this.

_Please, God, no, please, God. Why are you doing this? Why, God, why?_

Not Stiles of course. He understands perfectly. Never even needed to ask.

That’s why he’s your favorite.

He gets you.

The werewolf will also be a lot of fun of course. Like a windup toy.

And to watch Derek Hale slowly, slowly, slowly fall apart.

Simply delicious.

Until it gets boring, that is. He’s not, after all, and will never be, Stiles.

 

 

You press your eyes shut and the beautiful girl is swallowed by darkness.

Thinking about Stiles puts a hollow feeling into your –

Into your everything.

Which almost makes you chuckle.

Just think about it. You are emptiness incarnate. And yet, even _you_ can feel lonely. Although it’s more like a craving, really. Maybe you’d go as far as calling it an addiction.

But who wouldn’t get addicted to these eyes, this skin, this utter fragility.

She’s stroking your hair now, again, and you let it happen.

You are willing to bestow that particular honor onto her, she’s been a great help after all.

So you close your eyes and allow yourself to slip back to that moment eight, nine, ten years ago.

Do it like this.

Close your eyes and picture his, Stiles’s, face.

Then let him age backwards, let his mouth and cheeks and chin and nose and eyes and freckles become smaller and softer and it’s like you’re falling through time

 

 

 

 

and onto this ugly tiled floor, moldy green with yellowish shapes on them. Ducks maybe? No, elephants.

Ugh, disgusting.

This kitchen needs a carpet.

And what’s that smell.

It takes you one or two seconds to locate the strawberry cake on the counter. It’s covered with a new and clean kitchen towel to keep the flies from feasting on it and you immediately know what kind of family this is.

Well, you weren’t particularly looking for fun but since you’re already here...

But where are you, exactly?

And, the more pressing question, _when_?

Your claws click across the tiles as you turn around to throw a look at the clock above a collection of framed family photos. Three people in front of different, equally boring backgrounds. What a perfect and perfectly happy little family.

If you had real eyes, you’d roll them.

Humans.

Now pause.

Only for a moment.

Because it’s exactly when the clock tells you that it’s 3:17 - a.m., obviously - that it happens.

And – just think about that – it’s a pure coincidence.

You, the king of hell, lord of all evil, master of darkness and emperor of all pain, come across the most delicious of toys – yes, by _chance_.

You’re still torn between wanting some fun here and now, and journeying to 1852 to witness the massacre and, obviously the place is right but the time isn’t because the people in the photos, the people living here, they have the wrong skin color – but who says you can’t have little massacre of your own?

The faintest of noises draws your attention to the door and you behold a boy, maybe seven or eight years of age.

Human, with brown eyes and a pale skin and a few moles and freckles on his face.

He’s standing in the doorway, obviously frozen.

Because your real shape is... well.

Humans are certainly not made to see it which is why you had planned on snatching a body while drifting through time to not attract attention and spoil the fun.

So the kid, he’s terrified.

His whole body is shaking and his eyes, they glide up and down your – form – up and down, up and down.

And then, the unthinkable happens.

It wouldn’t have seemed possible what with his body trembling like this but he takes a step forward.

Yeah, he’s scared to death but he just mustered up all his courage, you can sense it, and braves – well, braves _you_.

And as if that wasn’t astonishing enough he puts his little forehead in wrinkles and says, with a faint voice but determined, oh yes, so determined,

“Get out!”

He stomps his right foot and you’ll never forget the look in his young eyes, gleaming with anger and the instinctive knowledge not only that you shouldn’t be in his parents’ kitchen but that you are _wrong_ and you scratch 1852 from your bucket list.

Just think about that, you have been to the most horrid battles and serial murders and they left you less than impressed. After a few millennia human cruelty just becomes an endless row of annoying monotonies.

And now this.

Oh, you are intrigued.

The boy has grabbed a knife from the counter and is making a bold advance, his frail knuckles white over the black hilt and the whole thing almost slips from his grip, it’s so big and his hands are so small.

And what’s the most astonishing: he knows that he doesn’t stand a chance, that he’s being utterly stupid – and yet he’s doing it.

Maybe it is the fact that he seems to have _understood_ something about you – about the dark, shapeless, crawling mass that is you – that makes _you_ want to know more about _him_.

To understand where that mind is coming from exactly.

But studying his parents doesn’t do much.

Because, yes, most of the times, you actually do that – stand by and observe. Collect empirical data.

And his parents, yes, they’re good parents. And very smart, both. But so many people are and yet they die in accidents and get massacred and starve without anyone ever learning their name.

Without drawing _your_ attention to them.

 

 

Here you take a deep breath and marvel at the power of chance.

That made you stumble across that particular human of all humans of all times, not that he is special, but he is to _you_ and who could have foreseen _that_?

So it was chance and even _you_ have to bow down to it, yes, and its mode of operation ultimately defies your comprehension which you must accept.

That’s the rules, remember?

You slowly nod and congratulate yourself again on the idea to snatch his best friend’s body.

Sure, you could have slipped back in time a little further and made a game out of this. Created a body of your own, slowly gained his trust...

You wouldn't really call yourself a romantic, no.

But there was something _sacred_ about this moment in the kitchen.

It was supposed to be the beginning of it all. So that's where you started watching, observing until, finally, you entered the game.

You chose little Theodore.

Convenient, very convenient.

So you moved, not only into Theo’s body, but into Theo’s house and family which gave you the chance for a little extra fun.

Theo’s parents’ faces though – your human brain doesn’t really remember them now because you played with them a little too heavily a long time ago, and, naturally, you had to replace them more than once.

But thinking about them now – which is something you haven’t done in years – puts a grin onto your face. They _loved_ them both so much, their son and daughter.

The twins they’d adopted as babies, yes?

And they’d be thrilled - _thrilled_ \- to see the family back together.

Who knew you were capable of mercy, too, and that girl – sorry, your _sister_ – she is whispering to you to call her if you need anything, just say my name and I’ll hear you, I’ll be here right away, and she rises from the bed, walks across the room and switches off the light.

Then she stands by the door, waiting.

You know what this is. The human behavioral codex would have you express your gratitude now.

And why not.

Always play the game.

You wouldn’t want it to get boring, yes?

You must obey the rules, it’s as simple as that.

So you softly lean back against the bedroom wall and, relaxing your eyes in the darkness of the room already, say, “Thank you.”

And then, with a little pause to impart meaningfulness, a sense of ownership, to the next three syllables,

 

 

“Malia.”

 


	13. STILES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then: Young Stiles hears about the Hale house fire.  
> Now: An unfortunate encounter in the woods.

Stiles was breathing heavily, and not only because he’d run the whole way from his house into the forest without stopping once.

He was so freaking _mad_ he wanted to punch a tree – but rational enough to know that that wouldn’t change anything except, maybe, add to the pain he was already feeling.

Fine, if Mr. Derek Hale was so sick of babysitting him why didn’t he just piss off?

For all _he_ cared, Derek could crawl back into the burnt shell of his stupid house or empty apartment or to wherever the cynical asshole usually withdrew to wallow in self-pity and pessimism.

Oh, and it’s not like Stiles had _asked_ him to stay and play computer games for five hours. Derek had really had fun but then, all of a sudden annoyed, had jumped up, declared that he had better things to do and walked out the door. Only to greet him with a stern look an hour later in his, Stiles’s, kitchen, and demand that he finally eat something, God, would you believe this dumb teenager.

Derek made him so _angry_ he almost forgot how much he was hating Theo at the moment.

Ok, yes, he felt hurt.

There.

Happy now?

Yeah, and betrayed, too, maybe.

Derek treated him like an animal that he didn’t quite understand and couldn’t get to behave the way he wanted.

Yeah, that’s what he was to Derek.

Basically a dog who kept pissing on his favorite rug no matter how much Derek was making an effort to train him. Apparently being in a pack didn’t include that you actually get a little bit of respect.

That arrogant piece of shit.

And why was Derek fucking Hale still behaving as if he were the fucking alpha of their stupid pack? And, what’s more, why would Scott even let him?

Maybe Scott should get Derek’s neck instead of trying to log into that of his best friend.

Stiles took a few deep breaths and wiped his face with his sleeve.

No he wasn’t crying.

These were just – manly tears of anger.

After a few minutes he had calmed down sufficiently to look around a bit and figure out where exactly he was. He hadn’t really cared before – he’d just wanted to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible.

Sometimes you just have to follow your impulse and get the hell out. That or punching Derek Hale in the face.

But he was angry, not suicidal.

He felt calmer now which was not necessarily a good thing because feelings of guilt and shame instantly started creeping over him.

Yes, you could say that he’d had sort of a meltdown which is just barely above a hissy fit on the teenage dignity scale. And thinking about it more calmly right now – he wasn’t even quite sure what had happened.

Derek had just been... well, Derek, but for some reason, this time had been too much for Stiles to bear.

Maybe he was falling apart more quickly than he’d thought possible.

“Graaaah!”

He rubbed his cheeks and forehead and shook his head and tiptoed around a tree as if getting ready to step into the ring.

Of course he wasn’t too eager to confront Derek right now. Then again, he had seen Derek in the most impossible, embarrassing situations. He’d seen him get beat up and electrocuted and vomit and faint.

But none of these impressions seemed to stick.

In Stiles’s mind, Derek was still – well, the biggest badass on the planet.

Yes, it was embarrassing to admit that.

But when he’d first met Derek, Derek had been wearing the coolest leather jacket Stiles had ever seen. It had reminded him of the aloof handsomeness of a superhero’s alter ego.

Stiles shook his head. He did _not_ want to think about that right now. He wanted to be _angry_ at Derek.

Yes, maybe Derek had been the first person he’d ever consciously thought of as handsome. And he had undeniably and instantaneously admired him what with his smoothness and good looks. And despite being so grown-up and tall – well, in comparison to Stiles, that is – Derek had listened to Stiles’s ramblings for almost an hour before he’d dropped him off in front of the Stilinskis’ house.

Being taken seriously can sometimes really work magic.

At eight years old, Stiles had had an immediate crush on Derek, the same way he admired Iron Man or wanted to be friends with the Flash.

It hadn’t lasted long of course because two weeks after that Stiles had spit gum into Lydia Martin’s strawberry red hair during recess whereupon she’d kicked him in the shins.

Stiles had been immediately in love.

But badass Derek Hale? Stiles was shaking his head again and said “As _if_ ” to a nearby tree.

What he really wanted to know was if Derek had already been such a grumpy sourwolf but he honestly couldn’t remember. The next time he’d seen him was years and years later and by then, Stiles had already forgotten all about their chance encounter one sunny afternoon.

Alright, alright.

Almost everything.

Ok, maybe he’d been thinking about it _occasionally_ throughout the years, wondering where Derek had gone and wishing he would pop up in school and pretend to be his older brother, for instance when Jimmy McCain and Howard Fisher had flushed a large part of his Pokemon card collection down a toilet in the boys’ first floor restroom at Lincoln Elementary.

But he’d also prayed for his dad to secretly be Batman, so his eight-year-old self was obviously not to be taken seriously.

 

 

***

 

 

“Hi dad!,” Stiles yelled and a second later he came flying down the stairs and into the living room to greet his father who smiled at him, a bag of groceries in hands.

“Careful son, I got two dozen eggs in here – you still remember what happened last month, right?”

“Yeah...,” Stiles said and stopped short. “Yeah... I’ll just stay here.”

He turned around and took a seat on the bottom step of the staircase.

“Good boy,” his father mouthed and walked into the kitchen to put down the groceries. Stiles followed him at a safe distance.

“Dad?”

“Mh?”

“Are you tired?”

“Tired?”

John Stilinski turned to his son and smiled again. His cleverness could be almost creepy sometimes.

“Yeah, exhausting day today...,” he said and proceeded to stuff the fridge with food. He took out a green Tupperware box and looked at it. “Do you think we’ll finish the Curry?”

“Dad, we haven’t had Curry in two weeks!”

“Oh. Right,” Stilinski said and, still kneeling in front of the fridge, leaned over, opened the trash can with his right hand and let the green box with the Curry hover over it for a second. Then, instead of opening the plastic lid, he unceremoniously dumped the whole box into the trash.

“What happened?”

Stiles was squatting on one of the chairs.

“Feet on the floor, son,” his dad said and Stiles let his legs slide down over the seat. He’d grown at least five inches over the summer, so they were long enough to reach the floor now.

“So? What happened?”

Stilinski let out a sigh. Stiles wouldn’t stop asking anyway so he might as well answer now.

“Well, I can’t tell you the details but we had a big case today. I’m going to have to go back to the office once you’re in bed.”

“Oh. Ok. Be careful.”

Stiles was watching his dad cram the eggs in-between a carton of milk and a box with marinated chicken wings. There was an unhealthy cracking sound from one of the cartons but John Stilinski ignored it and threw the refrigerator door shut.

“So, what happened?”

“Arson.”

“The crime of maliciously and intentionally setting fire to a building?”

“Yes,” Stilinski said frowning.

“So, who did it?”

“We don’t know – and even if we did, we certainly wouldn’t tell _you_. Have you finished your homework?”

“We didn’t get any today. Whose house was it?”

John Stilinski took off his jacket, opened the fridge again and stared at its contents as if he’d never seen them before.

“Can we have the wings with potatoes?,” Stiles said and jumped up from the chair. “I can prepare the salad.”

His dad nodded gratefully, dragged the box of chicken out from under the eggs and closed the door with his right foot.

“Don’t ever do that, understood?,” he quickly said when he saw his son’s raised eyebrows. His mom had been very strict about where hands and feet belong (on door handles and windows versus on the floor).

“Understood. So?”

“Oh, right. It was the Hale house,” John Stilinski said. The box of chicken wings was inexplicably dripping with egg yolk, so he went looking for a towel.

When they did these TV shows about the big, unsolved mysteries of the world, they clearly forgot to mention kitchens.

“We got a call at about four p.m. People reported a wildfire but, turns out, it was the Hale house,” he continued, slowly rubbing the box dry, only to rip it open a few seconds later, turn it upside down on the kitchen counter to empty it, and then dump it into the trash can, on top of the green Tupperware box.

“You know, that old mansion in the forest, near Highford Creek. Not sure if you can call that a _house_ , however – well, not now anymore, definitely...”

When Stiles didn’t answer, his dad turned around.

“Stiles? You ok?”

His son blinked and closed his mouth.

“Yeah, sure. Was – was anyone hurt?”

Stiles handed his dad the frying pan he had dug out of a pile of freshly washed and folded kitchen towels on the table, but he really wanted to sit down now. His knees felt like rubber all of a sudden and his heart was beating like crazy.

He wasn’t quite sure why.

“Mh... yes,” his dad said slowly, voice muffled now because he had dived into the cabinet under the sink. A second later he re-emerged with salt and pepper shakers.

“Actually... it was really bad. Er... I don’t know how much I can tell you son – or how much I _should_ tell you, you’re having nightmares as it is.”

“Tell me,” Stiles said forcefully and his dad turned around in surprise. “Please,” he added meekly to soften the demand.

His dad frowned but then, after a short pause, said, “There was – quite number of casualties... actually... actually, we can’t be sure right now, but it looks like the whole family was locked inside the building.”

He watched in amazement how all the color drained from his son’s face.

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he said, looking guilty. “I’m sorry son, I keep forgetting that you’re only eleven.”

Stiles quickly shook his head but was unable to say anything.

He helped his dad prepare dinner in silence and it was only when they were doing the washing up that he dared address the topic again.

“Dad? Is it absolutely certain? That – that they’re all – dead?”

Stilinski shook his head.

“No, we don’t know any details and I doubt that my colleagues could find out anything just yet.”

“Can you tell me when you know – only about the casualties, I mean. They’ll be in the newspaper anyway, right, dad?”

Stilinski looked at his strangely quiet son – a sight he didn’t like, didn’t like at all – and said, “Yes. Yes, sure, why not. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles was shuffling along the leafy and muddy ground. He loved the forest – always had. His sanctuary as a kid – in both his dreams and waking life. To him, the shadows had never held anything evil.

He well remembered the dread with which he’d gone to bed that night, worried – fearing – almost _convinced_ – that Derek Hale was dead. He’d only really met him once, yes, but he never forgot anyone. And when he heard that Derek was alive but the rest of his family wasn’t, his heart broke for him and he hadn’t quite recovered from that pain.

Not quite, no matter how dislikeable adult Derek had turned out to be and how much of a jackass he was being now.

Stupid, idiotically empathic Stiles.

“So you still talk to yourself in the third person? Go ahead, I wouldn’t want to interfere, you seem to really be entertaining yourself...”

Stiles spun around.

A form was moving in the darkness but Stiles didn’t have to see anything to know who it was. Surprisingly, he was neither shocked nor scared.

He just didn’t have the energy for either.

“Hey Theo, creeping around the bushes like the creepy fucker you are?”

“Well, you’ve always been one of the brightest candles on Mommy’s cake...,” the voice said, “Strawberry, right? Stiles-y’s favorite.”

Stiles was immediately furious again but this time, it was a dark, toxic rage laced with hatred.

“Shut up!”

“Do you still cry every time you eat strawberry cake? Because that’s not what boy’s do... and I’ve been thinking for a long time – maybe you’d be better as a girl, anyway, mh?”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!!”

Stiles had located the moving form a few feet in front of him and was about to hurl himself at it when something grabbed his hands and pinned them to his back, holding his whole body in place.

The recognition that Theo was _behind_ him sent a cold shiver through his whole body. Then, what was that...?

Never mind.

What could possibly be worse than evil incarnate grabbing him from out of the shadows, then dragging him along the narrow path and through puddles and bushes and finally shoving him against a black Mercedes SLS AMG, face first.

“Ugh, now you left a grease stain on the window. And I had it cleaned so nicely before....”

“You goddamn son of a bitch...,” was all Stiles could say.

So that’s how you do this.

Run meat hooks through Stiles’s hands, beat and cut the crap out of him, almost have him bleed out over a dirty concrete floor, mysteriously disappear and – buy a sports car?

Sounds like Ted Bundy’s bucket list.

“Ts, you really lost your edge, haven’t you,” Theo said and pushed Stiles onto the passenger’s seat. He considered him for a few seconds, then put on Stiles’s seatbelt with a sly grin.

 

 

“Aah... don’t you just love the smell of a new car?,” Theo said when the Mercedes turned the corner with squealing tires a minute later.

“You do know that driving a car like this doesn’t overcompensate for a small penis.”

Theo chuckled amused.

“People have been saying this since the invention of cars and, granted, there is a certain validity to it. Not in my case, of course. Your childhood friend turned out – quite nicely. The ladies would’ve loved him, I dare say...”

Theo half-turned his head, sending Stiles one of his sly smiles, but Stiles avoided his gaze. He was staring out the window, caught in a mixture of fury and helplessness.

“I thought you’d be happier,” Theo continued, mock-hurt, “I got this car deliberately for you, you know?”

Stiles snorted.

“No, really, I thought, what Derek Hale can do, you can do better, right?”

He let out a soft laugh.

“And you seem to like this kind of showmanship...”

Stiles pressed his lips together, determined not to give Theo additional reasons to mock him. And, quite frankly, he didn’t quite bear him saying Derek’s name like that. Or talk about Theo – the _real_ Theo. Or about Scott, or _anyone_. He didn’t want Theo to know or think about _any_ of his friends.

To have your name lingering in the back of the devil’s mind is not a good thing.

Theo didn’t provoke him further. For the moment, he seemed to be satisfied with sitting next to Stiles, throwing him a glance now and then, and smiling knowingly.

For a split second, Stiles wanted to ask him where he’d been.

If it was true that Derek had defeated him and where he was taking him now.

Or, he could start begging him to leave his pack alone. Offer him a deal. Offer himself in exchange for the others’ lives.

But he was so tired.

So he just sat there in silence as the car smoothly glided around corners and down dark alleyways like a black snake in a pipe.


	14. THEO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steo/ Stucifer all the way.

When Stiles got out of the car, he immediately recognized the house.

What fresh hell was this?

“Why are we at Malia’s?”

Theo locked the car and let the keys rotate around his index finger.

“You’re a smart kid. I’m sure you can guess.”

Stiles thought about dashing off into the woods, only for a moment, then followed Theo into the house.

When Malia greeted them, apron tied around her waist, Stiles considered that he might actually be hallucinating.

 “I made cookies,” she said, beaming at Theo. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Wha...,” was the only thing he managed to say.

Theo shrugged.

“Follow me when you’re ready, Stiles.”

He had already turned around and vanished in what Stiles knew was Malia’s bedroom.

Stiles would have obeyed since experience had taught him that it was always better to listen to Theo but his feet just wouldn’t move.

His eyes found Malia’s. She looked deeply uncomfortable.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” she finally whispered.

What on earth was going on?

Theo must have brainwashed her.

But why then was she tearing up now?

Stiles took a few steps towards her, his arm outstretched to touch her shoulder.

Just to be absolutely sure that it was her and not one of Theo’s cruel pranks.

Then again – if it actually _was_ her... he’d have preferred her turn back into a mangy dog or something and Theo jump out of the adjoining room and yell ‘Gotcha!!’

Which had happened before.

“Malia, are you ok? What has he done to you?”

Malia retreated towards the wall, moving out of reach of Stiles’ hand.

“I’m so sorry... he – he’s my _brother_...”

“What? No he’s not,” Stiles said. “What did he do to you?”

Malia slowly shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks now. Her hands were shaking so she hid them in the pockets of her apron.

“I – sorry.”

She vanished in the kitchen and left Stiles standing there, staring at the closed door.

Half a minute later he could hear her sobbing, trying to muffle the sound with the clutter of pans and pots.

He slowly turned and walked over to Malia’s bedroom.

It felt as if someone else was directing his steps, as if someone else was lifting his arm now to turn the doorknob, then shove his body through the door.

Close it behind him.

“...where’s her dad?”

“Business trip,” Theo said.

He was sitting on Malia’s computer chair, feet on her desk.

“Where is her dad?” Stiles said.

His anxiety had given way to something like blood lust.

He wanted to murder Theo.

Didn’t even fantasize about how slowly he would do it or how he’d let him suffer.

He just needed to end him, make him vanish from this earth.

It had been done before.

“A penny for your thought,” Theo said and got up from the chair.

“No one says that anymore since 1970.”

“Man, you’re in a mood today... ok, I’ll elaborate, if that makes you happy. Yes, her dad really is on a business trip. That was the condition for me using her house – that I don’t hurt him.”

Theo was watching Stiles’ face closely when he added, “And yes – she is my sister – or Theo’s. You couldn’t know that of course, because when you came to little Theodore’s house to play she’d already been taken away by Child Services and put into a different foster family. Broke her adoptive mommy’s heart.”

He laughed softly.

“But well... she still had me, right?”

“So you slept with your own sister, you sick bastard,” Stiles spit out. “And keep her as your house slave and make her cook and clean for you.”

This statement excited a loud laugh from Theo.

“Now you’re being a little dramatic. First of all, I may be the king of hell but I’m not a sexist. She put the apron on of her own accord. Doesn’t do a lot, though. She usually ends up covered in dough from head to foot whenever she does anything.”

Theo’s eyes were gleaming.

“We mostly order Chinese. As for me sleeping with her – it was a lie, obviously. I may be evil, but I’m not interested in these things.”

Theo’s lips twisted into a grin.

“Even though she suggested that I try it for a change. You know, instead of ripping your flesh off.”

They were looking at each other.

Theo with raised eyebrows and a soft smile.

Stiles with trembling fists, his face distorted with hatred.

“Stiles, come here.”

“I’m not your dog.”

“Come here or I’ll hurt Malia,” Theo simply answered and Stiles hated, hated, _hated_ how easy it was for him to get whatever he wanted. He took a few, hesitating steps forward.

Theo put out his hand.

Stiles stared at it in bewilderment for a few seconds. Then he slowly raised his right hand and put it into Theo’s palm. It was warm and soft and his grip was strong. He led Stiles over to Malia’s bed and made him sit down.

“I admit that I – lost control – a _little_ – last time. So I’ll try and restrain myself today. We’ll play a little game that I call Don’t Move.”

“How creative,” Stiles said. He felt like throwing up.

Theo knelt down in front of him.

“You’re heart’s beating really fast,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Ok, here are the rules.”

He moved his hand and when Stiles looked down he saw that Theo was holding a switchblade.

“I’m not going to tie you up or restrain you in any other way. But if you try to escape, I’ll do to Malia what you wouldn’t let me do to you.”

All the feeling had vanished from Stiles’ arms and legs but he had the strong suspicion that it would return immediately when Theo put the blade to his skin.

“The key, as always, lies in simplicity. I never understood the need for complicated torture devices. There is nothing like the beauty-”

He put the tip of the blade to Stiles’ left forearm.

“-of a knife biting into flesh.”

“You’re quite the poet,” Stiles said and then, “Gnnnn,” as Theo drew the blade a few inches down his arm. He didn’t look down but could feel that the cut must be at least three inches long.

He hissed when Theo traced the line with his finger.

“Your blood. Stiles...”

Theo’s voice was a gentle whisper now. He held his hand up in front of Stiles’ face who grimaced when he saw the blood dripping down from Theo’s index finger.

When Theo put the blade to his arm anew, Stiles closed his eyes.

He didn’t even flinch during the next five cuts.

Slowly but surely, however, his arm was burning like hell. It became more and more difficult for Stiles to pretend not to feel anything.

Theo now rose and gestured for Stiles to do so as well.

When Stiles got up he realized how tense he was. It was only with a certain effort that he got his legs to unfold and support him.

Then he was facing Theo.

He could feel the blood dripping steadily down his fingers and onto Malia’s carpet.

Theo was smiling at him. Of course he was.

Stiles had been a good boy so far.

And there was still that hint of defiance in his eyes that Theo cherished.

Stiles frowned when Theo raised the switchblade.

“Going to stab me after all, mh?”

“Don’t be silly,” Theo said.

He let the blade slide under Stiles’s t-shirt and, without even asking him to get rid of his purple hoodie, he ripped it apart.

“Hey, I liked that shirt!!”

Theo frowned at the shreds.

“Linkin Park? Really?”

“They’re – I got that at a concert-,” Stiles started but then stopped himself.

He didn’t have to justify himself to that bastard.

Or to anyone.

And Theo could tell him what to do but he wouldn’t get him to become his puppet.

 _He_ can’t tell me what to think.

He can’t _tell_ me what to think.

He can’t tell me _what to think_ , Stiles was repeating in his head as Theo slowly drew the blade across his naked chest.

When he stepped back to stare at his work, Stiles looked up to the ceiling.

Classic Malia. To leave the lights on despite the fact that it was broad day outside.

“Your taste really evolved,” he said and then bit his tongue.

Just shut the hell up, you moron.

Don’t give him ideas.

But it was too late.

Theo chuckled softly. Nodded.

“Yeah, it has, hasn’t it... but,” and he let out a laugh, “I’m still a sucker for fire, I can tell you that.”

“N-no,” Stiles said and quickly took a few steps back.

“Ah!”

Theo tilted his head a little to the right.

Stiles froze.

Goddamn this fucking bastard.

“No, Theo, please, not the – the lighter, Theo, come one...”

Theo let the lighter click.

Then he let the palm of his left hand hover over the small flame.

“Hssssss...”

He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his hand.

The flame died.

“Already healing, of course, but still painful.”

When he heard the lighter click again, Stiles couldn’t feel his legs anymore.

“Th-Theo, please... Theo – c-come on...”

Suddenly, Theo was standing directly in front of him. He was so close that Stiles could smell his aftershave.

And his mouth was still going, going, going but he didn’t know what he was saying or what he thought that talking would do for him.

“Say my name,” Theo whispered.

“Th-Theo,” Stiles said.

“My _real_ name,” Theo hissed.

There was a pause.

“Lucifer,” Stiles said.

He closed his eyes.

So he wouldn’t have to see Theo’s soft smile and his slow nod but he could still hear him say, “I always thought there was such an odd ring to it...”

He moved Stiles’ purple zip hoodie further out of the way, carefully, so as to gain more naked skin around his shoulders and not to disturb the thin lines of blood that were drawing a delicate pattern across Stiles’ chest and stomach.

“Shhhh,” Theo said and Stiles realized that he, Stiles, was still talking, begging.

He felt miserable.

But not ashamed.

He had passed ashamed the day after his tenth birthday when Theo had tried to get him to cut the tendon in his own foot and he had cried for him not to ask him to do that, please, not that but anything else, anything, just not that. When he had looked up he had seen Theo’s satisfied smirk and he had understood that it had been a test. He’d successfully felt for Stiles’ breaking point. Then they had sneaked over to old Mrs. Benson’s. She had this really old cat that was usually prowling around the birdhouse in her back yard even though she was way too slow and fat to catch anything. Theo had poisoned the piece of sausage but Stiles was the one who had dangled it in front of Whiskers’ head until she started following it with her green eyes. Stiles had chucked it at her paws and then watched her chew and chew and chew.

A despicable act of cowardice.

Right?

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinked and Theo slipped into focus. He was still holding the lighter, a questioning look on his handsome face.

Stiles tried hard not to look at the flame that was still dancing from the silver rim of the little box in Theo’s hand.

“So how will it be this time when you’re done with me? Mh? Lucifer? Are you going to keep me here forever – maybe lock me up in the basement? Or – why don’t you throw me into the pit right now, where you can break me more _thoroughly_. And keep me from my friends and family effectively.”

Maybe attack was the best defense.

In any case, it was the only one he had.

“Stiles,” Theo said, frowning. “Stiles. I don’t want to keep you from anyone. I just want to have a little fun – to make me feel alive. Is that so strange?”

“Couldn’t do something, I don’t know, regular humans would do? Get hammered? Or a drug of your choice?” Stiles said. He knew his voice was shaking and so were his knees and hands.

But maybe, if he could get Theo to talk... and to keep talking, always keep talking.

“Drugs?” Theo said and let the lighter flick shut and when the flame disappeared Stiles felt hope stir in his chest.

“And being the monster that you are-”

“ _Lord_ of all the monsters,” Theo interrupted him.

“Being the arrogant fucker that you are, you’ll keep me from my pack and, and, from talking to anyone I ever knew.”

“Oh, you can talk to them, Stiles. Talk to them all you want. As long as you want. I won’t keep you from it,” Theo said and he smiled gently, genuinely, “Only what you will have felt will be unspeakable, not to be put into words. But that’s ok.”

He clicked the lighter and the flame sprung up and Theo’s eyes sparkled.

“ _I’ll_ understand.”

And the pain ripped through Stiles’ body, ripped into his brain and caused his thoughts,

his voice,

his vision,

to fragment.

 

 

 

 

 

Theo was towering over him and Stiles was on the bed now, and Theo was towering over him, kneeling on the mattress, a black shadow rising over him because it was gradually getting darker now, the room, and the light on the ceiling was starting to throw shadows, and Stiles was being held down by magic force now with Theo standing, kneeling, over him but barely touching him, their little game was over, obviously, because there was no way in hell that Stiles could concentrate on not _moving_ anymore, now.

He wasn’t even thinking anything.

He just wanted to get his chest away, just move it out of the flame’s reach but he couldn’t gain an inch, not even _one –_ _fucking_ – _inch_ , but his feet kicked the pillows, the comforter, the mattress, and Theo was breathing heavily even though it was Stiles

 

 

 

 

on whose chest blood from the cuts was creeping, burning, into the raw, singed and raw, flesh now and he wasn’t even doing anything, Theo, was just standing over him and looking down on him and breathing heavily and there was sweat on his, Theo’s, fucking forehead even though he couldn’t possibly see that, Stiles, because he was thrashing around on the mattress, straining, craning his neck, throwing his head to the right and left and right and left and right...

 

 

 

 

Blind, completely blind except for that

 

 

 

“Scream,” Theo commanded and his chest was heaving.

He was staring down onto him, Stiles, like a _maniac_ and wasn’t that ridiculous?

If only Theo were crazy, it would all be so much easier to understand and maybe he could even be messed with.

“Gnnnn,” was all Stiles said, biting down onto the pillow.

He hadn’t even screamed once even though his vocal chords felt oddly sore.

Or maybe he had.

He didn’t know anything but the pain.

The pain.

The pain.

The

 

 

 

 

 

 

Theo.

“ _Theo_! N-no, Lucifer-”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles felt like he was slowly coming to.

He hadn’t been unconscious, no.

That’s not what it was like, ever.

If only.

But Theo.

Somehow, inexplicably, he had _stopped_.

 _It_ had stopped.

The evil little flame.

His chest and shoulders, they felt –

Stiles moaned and moved his head and pried his eyes open.

Or – no they had already been open but he had forgotten to blink and they were dried out and not seeing anything but now they were slowly letting in image after image after image again.

Stiles blinked a few times and tried to breathe the pain away and focus on the figure that was standing in front of the bed.

Motionless.

It was Lucifer and it was like a blackness was emanating from his whole body.

Theo’s whole body.

His whole body was tensed up and he was staring at the floor, or the pillows on the floor, or a shred of Stiles’ t-shirt on the pillow on the floor, and he was visibly trembling.

That couldn’t be good but Stiles was too numb and drunk from the pain to wonder about this.

And then Lucifer said,

Theo said,

he ground out,

“It’s _not_... _enough_ ,” hands clenched into fists now. Stiles could almost see his whole body pulsating with rage.

Then he exploded.

He let out a scream then picked up the computer chair and threw it into the wall next to the bed with a force that made the bed and door and walls vibrate dangerously.

“ _WHY IS IT NOT ENOUGH?!_ ”


	15. SCOTT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theo is angry. Scott is worried. A Sterek moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for comments & kudos - you guys are awesome! Please keep reading <3

“It’s not enough,” Theo ground out, hands clenched into fists now. Stiles could almost see his whole body pulsating with rage.

Then he exploded.

He let out a scream then picked up the computer chair and threw it into the wall next to the bed with a force that made the bed and door and walls vibrate dangerously.

 “ _Why is it not enough_?!”

Stiles quickly slid down to the floor and watched with an open mouth as Theo raged through the room. Stiles used to think that Theo wouldn’t be as creepy if he only showed a hint of human emotion – a tinge of anger, or fear, or frustration, only once, only for a few seconds.

Now he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Somehow, inexplicably, his rage made Theo appear even _less_ human.

There were steps in front of the door and a second later Malia came running into the room.

“Theo, what on earth is going on?!”

She was staring at the hole in her bedroom wall and the remains of her computer chair and then she spotted Stiles.

“Oh my God, Stiles, oh God, what the – God, I’m so sorry, so sorry...”

She had knelt down next to him and was staring at his chest, then raised her hands as if meaning to touch him and then let them hover in mid-air.

As if she didn’t know _where_ to touch him, as if she couldn’t make out a spot that was not singed or cut or covered in blood.

“It’s ok, Malia. I’m ok,” Stiles said, his voice raspy. “Stop apologizing – please. It’s not your fault, ok? It’s not your fault...”

He held his breath and picked himself up.

Theo hadn’t punched him in the stomach this time but, God, it felt like his skin had been torn to shreds.

And melted.

And that was the thing with fire.

Even when Theo stopped, the burning sensation never really did, as if there was a shadow flame still licking at the sensitive spots.

Stiles would always feel it for a long time, even after the wounds had healed completely.

“Let’s go, Malia...,” he mumbled and started limping out of the room.

“Malia?”

“I – I can’t, Stiles.”

She was still sitting next to the bed, looking forlorn.

Helpless.

“He’s not your brother. He just stole his body,” Stiles muttered.

They were both looking over to Theo who was still standing motionless in the middle of the room, staring at the floor.

Who knew what he was thinking right now.

Stiles saw a thin line of blood making its way from Theo’s left ear towards the neckline of his orange sweater.

He knew what it meant.

It had only happened once before.

When Lucifer had realized that he couldn’t _see_ Stiles anymore because of what his, Stiles’, mother had done.

From one moment to the next, Stiles had vanished from Lucifer’s radar and he’d been mad, Lucifer.

Livid.

So furious in fact that he’d almost burst out of his human shell, yes.

Because that would’ve greatly increased his powers and heightened the possibility of recovering Stiles, see?

He’d even started bleeding from his mouth and nose and eyes and his skin had started to crack. Back when.

But apparently he was very attached to that body and he’d pulled himself together at the last minute, just in the very last instant, and vanished.

Which had turned out to be the right thing for him, obviously, since that thing that Stiles’ mom had done?

It had made it impossible for Lucifer to come close to Stiles, no matter in which shape.

Lucifer hadn’t known that, not _then_ at least, but Stiles was convinced that he had guessed. Understood. And crawled back into some black hole.

And lay low.

Maybe slept or simply stared into the darkness, waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

Maybe – maybe he’d do the same thing now.

Withdraw and think.

It’s not enough – what did that mean?

But Stiles didn’t really want to know. He just wanted him to be gone.

“Malia, don’t!”

But it was too late.

She’d already touched Theo’s shoulder and woken him from his trance.

He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.

Then at Stiles.

But before he could open his mouth a shadow came flying in and swiped Theo off his feet.

Without thinking, Stiles fumbled with the zipper of his hoodie.

His fingers trembled, even after he’d successfully pulled the zipper up.

“Stiles, are you ok, man?”

It was Scott.

Scott was here.

Why was Scott here?

And the shadow – that was Derek, of course.

He was holding Theo pinned to the wall now, sending his fists into his stomach again and again and again and Stiles could see blood spurting out of Theo’s mouth and sprinkle his sweater and Derek’s face.

Derek didn’t even blink.

Malia who had retreated towards the bed let out a whimper, her eyes glued to Theo’s limp body but she seemed unable to move.

Stiles suddenly thought he understood her.

“Derek, stop,” he said and then, with more energy, more determination, “Derek! STOP!”

Derek’s head snapped in his direction and Stiles could see his eyes burning, flaming, bright green and he was sure Malia had seen it, too. Derek took a step back.

 Scott, whose hand was resting on Stiles’ shoulder now, said, “Why? Stiles, Theo needs to be – we need to get rid of him.”

These words out of a true alpha’s mouth.

His pack was really meaning it.

They’d finally caught on, recognized the very real danger that Theo posed to them. To everyone.

He was pretty sure that, if he stepped outside right now, he’d also find Liam and Kira.

But for some reason, that thought didn’t make him feel very good.

“If you destroy his body – it’s no use, Scott. He’ll find a new one, soon, throw another innocent person into the pit. Derek, come on, please.”

It was odd.

Watching Theo collapse on the floor now didn’t give Stiles the satisfaction he’d expected.

Maybe because Malia was crawling towards her brother’s body, tears in her eyes, arms outstretched to touch him.

Stiles understood.

Perfectly.

He’d been searching for Theo, the _real_ Theo, the human inside this monster, for a long time.

Until he’d understood that there was nothing left of him.

Malia would get it in time but now was definitely too soon.

Hope really is a little bitch.

“We need a plan. Ok? Scott?”

Stiles couldn’t believe he was saying this.

Scott looked at him, clearly hesitating.

“Let’s take him with us at least. Restrain him-”

“In your bathtub?”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at Scott and he thought he saw the hint of a smile appear on Scott’s face.

“No, I remember you explaining to me in detail how that was the most stupid plan I could’ve come up with, ever. No bathtubs or chairs or ropes.”

“He can’t be restrained,” Derek said now.

Stiles saw his eyes flicker back to hazel and it sent shivers down his back.

Which, again, was very odd considering the fact that his chest and shoulders and arm and stomach screamed with pain from – well, it wasn’t _Derek’s_ fault, that was for sure.

“Stiles is right,” Derek added, “we have to find a way to take his powers away from him.”

“Good luck,” Stiles muttered under his breath, “taking the fucking _devil’s_ powers away...”

“Stiles,” Derek said.

“Mh?”

There was a pause during which both Scott and Derek were staring at him.

“You’re like – totally drenched in blood, dude...,” Scott said but Stiles shrugged and limped out of the room.

As expected they met Kira and Liam on the porch and Stiles wanted to tell them to take Malia away but he knew she wouldn’t listen anyway.

And right now he didn’t even care. About anyone or anything. At all.

He really wanted, _needed_ , to sleep. Escape.

Drown out reality.

 

 

 

“How is he?”

Melissa considered her son for a second, then continued stuffing medical supplies back into the green satchel.

“He’ll be fine. Scott?”

She zipped up the First Aid kit, folded her hands on top of it and looked at Scott.

“Stiles looks like – he was tortured. What is going on with you kids?”

Her voice wasn’t very steady and she knew that Scott could see that she was tearing up.

Which she shouldn’t be ashamed of, right?

Obviously a fresh kind of monster was out to get the kids and no one could help them, no one, no one.

She’d always believed – well, not in God, maybe, but in _something_. Like a force or a being. And she hadn’t stopped back then, when she’d sat in her room for days after she’d found out about Scott.

There hadn’t been a particular moment.

Her faith had just eroded over time.

Maybe the reason was her being so stressed out – _so stressed out_ all the time that she couldn’t catch a breath.

Like she had no capacity left in her for anything but worries and worst case scenarios.

Or what she liked to call _reality_.

“Mh?”

“Mom, everything ok?”

Melissa nodded curtly.

“And Stiles – well, yeah... someone did that to him but – we can do something about it. Him. I’m sure about that. I promise.”

“How can you _promise_ that Scott? You’re a _teenager_ , you shouldn’t _have to_ promise anything.”

“Ok, right. Please don’t tell Stiles’ dad.”

Melissa shook her head in disbelief.

“How can I – Scott, _I’d_ want to know. I’d _always_ want to know.”

“I know, mom. But I’m sure Stiles doesn’t want his dad to know and he’s still the patient.”

Melissa took in a deep, long breath. Then she put the handle of the first aid kit over her shoulder.

“Alright, Stiles should tell him that he’ll stay overnight and – if he calls me, I’ll confirm that. But I won’t _lie_ to him, ok? I can’t. Parents of supernatural teenagers need to stick together.”

“Stiles is not...,” Scott started but then said, “Ok. Thanks, mom.”

And maybe that was the problem.

Stiles was so fragile, so _human_.

Scott was pretty sure that that was part of his attraction to Theo.

Well, to Lucifer.

Man, he still couldn’t wrap his head around everything Derek had told him.

“We need a plan.”

“I know,” Scott answered Derek who had just entered the kitchen.

There was a pause.

Then Derek said, “You should have let me rip his head off.”

Scott nodded.

He understood the feeling.

Stiles hadn’t let them see – he’d insisted on being alone with Melissa, hadn’t even allowed Scott as much as a glimpse on his naked body – but they’d seen the blood soak through the fabric of his hoodie earlier. They had smelled the burnt skin.

“I’ll pay Deaton a visit. See if he knows anything.”

Scott nodded and Derek left.

A plan, yes.

What had stopped Lucifer the last time was the death of Stiles’ mom.

Which was awesome and so Harry Potter if it weren’t so tragic.

So what they needed was basically a human sacrifice.

Scott knew that Stiles must have been considering this option since Theo’s return and he, Scott, would make damn sure that Stiles wouldn’t get the chance to do it – to do anything that could put his own life in danger.

When Scott climbed the stairs to check on Stiles he wondered if it was egotistical of him to think that.

 

 

Theo wasn’t in school the next day and neither was Malia.

Stiles wasn’t particularly surprised about that.

He just hoped that Malia was ok.

As ok as she could be considering that she was basically the devil’s flesh and blood.

He’d almost ended up not going himself either.

To school.

He’d argued with Scott for full ten minutes and it had been Melissa’s gentle pressure on Scott’s shoulder that had finally made him agree.

So he was sitting through Math and Econ and Chemistry, History and English, mind comfortably numbed by pain medication and reminding himself to move cautiously every time he got up.

He wasn’t too eager to bleed onto the floor directly in front of Coach Finstock’s ugly brown loafers.

“So the question really is,” Stiles said hours later, carefully shouldering his backpack, “where are the khakis that go with Finstock’s shoes and when will he finally come out of the closet...”

Scott and Lydia just looked at him.

“You know – because he’d have to... er... hide them in a dark ass closet. Cause they’re so – _ugly_.”

Nothing.

Total silence.

“Too soon? Okay,” Stiles mumbled.

Lydia frowned.

“That was horrible, Stiles, and you know it.”

“She’s talking about your pathetic joke, bro,” Scott added but he was smiling now. “But I'm glad you’re back to normal.”

“Back to- you know, you can be a real jackass.”

Scott gave him a pat on the shoulder and Stiles flinched only a little.

“Look who’s here. The pack grandpa,” Scott said and they all turned towards Derek who came across the parking lot, both hands in his leather jacket.

“Good thing the pack grandkids aren’t here,” Lydia said, pursing her lips.

“Yeah, Derek still scares them to death,” Scott said and Stiles, despite himself, had to smile.

“I’m scaring who exactly to death?”

Derek had caught up with them.

“Liam and Mason,” Scott said.

Derek frowned at him.

“Mason’s a nice kid and Liam needs to get a grip already.”

“Whatever you say, grandpa,” Lydia said and Derek glowered at her.

“So... Deaton say anything?” Scott said and Derek slowly shook his head.

“But he’s working on it. I told him as much as I could yesterday. Stiles,” and Stiles almost jumped because Derek’s tone was sharp and so was the gaze that was piercing him now.

“D-Derek?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure...”

He followed him a few steps away from the group.

Scott could probably still hear them but was polite enough not to eavesdrop.

Werewolf etiquette.

 

 

“So, waddup, Derek. Shoot.”

Derek didn’t even shake his head at Stiles’ goofy grin.

“How are you, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged which hurt despite the pain killers but he had decided to play his part.

“Well, you don’t look ok.”

“But I am,” Stiles simply said. “For now. And-”

“Listen,” Derek interrupted him. “I meant to – apologize.”

Stiles blinked.

“For – yesterday. If I hadn’t pissed you off, you wouldn't have run out of the house.”

Stiles shrugged again, this time too embarrassed to look Derek in the eye. He had completely forgotten about his meltdown.

Theo’s eerie smile was haunting him but he hadn’t thought about apologizing to Derek, not even for one second.

“That’s ok, man. I’m really s-”

“Forget it, Stiles.”

Derek made a step towards him and gave him a short, firm hug. He patted his back twice and let go again.

Stiles didn’t know why but his knees felt like rubber all of a sudden.

“I never told you that, I guess... er...”

Derek rubbed his forehead, obviously at a loss for words, but Stiles didn’t see it.

He was staring at his sneakers.

When did everything become so awkward between them?

“That night when er... Peter bit Scott.”

Then again – when had it ever _not_ been awkward.

“And I was there, remember?”

Stiles nodded slowly, wondering why everything was so easy with Scott and Liam and Mason and Danny and Coach Finstock and his dad and Malia’s dad and everyone’s dad but so difficult with Derek.

“I wasn’t there because of Peter. Or because of the police. I was there because of you.”

“Huh?”

Stiles looked up in surprise.

“W-what now?”

Derek watched Coach Finstock fumble with his car keys on the other end of the parking lot.

“I was there because of you,” he repeated, “to keep you from getting bitten.”

Stiles blinked.

“I had picked up your scent and wanted to make sure you weren’t getting yourself in trouble again. And then Peter – well, the Alpha – appeared out of nowhere and I pushed you out of the way. And-”

“...and Peter bit Scott,” Stiles said.

“...yes.”

“... does Scott know about this?”

Derek nodded curtly.

“I told him. Yesterday.”

“And – why would you stop Peter from biting me?”

“Well, you were right in his way. He would’ve-”

“That’s _not_ what I asked.”

Stiles was looking at Derek now.

“I know. I’m meeting Deaton in fifteen minutes.”

“You can’t just run away like that.”

“Ask Scott,” Derek just said, turned around and walked away.

 

 

“What are they talking about, Scott?”

Scott just shook his head.

“I’m trying not to eavesdrop.”

“But you did, just now,” Lydia said.

“Yeah... that was strange... just now...”

“What was strange? Derek Hale hugging someone and that someone being Stiles?”

Scott slowly shook his head again.

“No, not necessarily but...”

“What? Scott, you’re stressing me out. Just get it out already, God.”

“His heart just skipped a beat.”

Lydia frowned. She looked over to the boy and the teenager who were talking in the shade of a tree but the only thing she could hear were Coach Finstock’s curses.

“Stiles’ heart?”

Scott shook his head.

“Derek’s.”

 

 

 

“Did my mother have a look at your chest?”

“Mh? Oh yeah... yes. She said it’s starting to heal.”

Stiles was lying on the bed. He was exhausted.

But he also needed answers.

“So Derek – talked to me and – what’s that about getting Peter to bite you instead of me..? Has the old sourwolf lost his mind now?”

“Can’t say anything about his sanity but... I can tell you what he said yesterday.”

Stiles listened in amazement for a few minutes.

“So this dude – Farn... yall?”

“Phanuel.”

“You know him?”

Stiles nodded slowly.

Of course he did.

So it had really been him.

A few weeks back, down in the kitchen, after Stiles’ ankle had woken him up.

Even though, by now, he should know better than to go down to the kitchen at 3 a.m.

So he’d found a way, somehow, to get around Lucifer’s ban.

Just as Lucifer had found a way to get around his own.

These exorcisms really weren’t what they used to be anymore.

“So your mom’s – sacrifice...”

“Yup.”

Stiles just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Derek knew – had known – about everything. Always.

Now, that would make things _so_ much _less_ awkward between them.

“And still – here he is. Theo.”

“Yeah, well...,” Stiles said, slowly sitting up in bed. “ _Technically_ , I died. And that’s when my mom’s protection... it ended. Naturally.”

“Stiles...”

“I threw it away. What could be worse than _causing_ your mother’s death, you ask? Oh, right, _causing_ her death and _then_ throwing her sacrifice away.”

He let his head sink back against the wall.

“You saved your dad. Remember?”

But Stiles didn’t answer.

Yeah, he remembered. He remembered everything, always.

That was precisely why he couldn’t sleep anymore.

It was the only good thing about his stinging burning biting skin.

See, it was just this feeling. That whatever Theo did to him, it was right.

Fair, in a sense, even.

He deserved it.


	16. THE BETA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's little problem. A mystery solved. Theo's back in school. Lydia has a magic purse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the most bizarre chapter opening yet.  
> Well. Sorry about that.  
> Derek's POV is really hard, don't judge me.

You stroll down the long rows of deodorant, tools, microwave dinners and magazines, and wavering over the shelves, softly, is “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys.

“Hey, sicko!”

You consider the cover page of Home Improvement Now that is adorned by a black-haired hottie with big boobs. These Kardashians really are everywhere.

“Yeah, it’s him – hey, over there by the porn magazines! Hey, Hale, are you fucking kids in that leather jacket?”

You turn your head a little. Roll your eyes as soon as you notice the two hipsters down the aisle, totally hammered, obviously.

And God, whoever allowed moustaches to time travel here from 1640 and terrorize everyone’s sense of aesthetics must really hold a grudge against humanity.

“What’re you looking at, you creep? Wanna murder us like your whole goddamn family? You sick piece of shit...”

You put down the magazine and leave the store but not to escape the hipsters.

What was really driving you nuts was the song.

And not all of it, not the whole song but – this particular line.

She goes with me to a blossom world.

Now that’s the _actual_ line. Verbatim, yes?

Ok, here’s the thing.

What you understand, every time it comes on in your car, or pops up on TV – and, granted, it’s not _that_ often, it’s not like they play it 24/7 these days – what comes out of the old radio, or your laptop, or the Sennheiser sound system in your car, it’s _She goes with me to a possum drool_.

Possum drool, that’s not even a thing. Or a word.

It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.

When you first listened to it, and you don’t even know when that was, must of been around 19... – ok, 1995... 96? – it’s what your kid’s brain twisted the words into and even though you’ve heard it a hundred times now, even googled the lyrics once there was google, then tried, _strained_ your ears, just get them to hear the _right_ thing and yet, possum drool it is. So, apparently this cannot be unheard. By you at least, and it’s – annoying.

How twisted are you exactly?

It doesn’t even really matter.

Right?

It’s not like everything else in your world is just peachy.

There’s kids being ripped apart by bombs every day in Gaza, all kinds of peoples subject to genocide and neocolonial theft, hundreds, thousands of people erring around the antisocial spectrum in our hyperinflated media consumers’ world, everyone starving drowning bombing raping abusing stealing scarring. Depressing stuff happening everywhere due to ideology or greed or whatever. Hatred perhaps, who knows.

Ok, yes.

Yes, that’s all horrible but the thing is – it’s a _really_ _great_ song and _all_ you can _fucking_ hear is _possum drool_.

 

 

 

All of a sudden the two hipsters from earlier that night resurfaced in Derek’s brain and with them the butchered lyrics of _Good Vibrations_.

Had he been in human form, he would’ve shaken his head. Instead he snorted and fell into an irregular trot.

What was astonishing wasn’t the recurring of an insignificant piece of memory per se but that it kept happening after the shift. His wolfish senses were supposed to drain out logical reasoning and rational thought and yet he was haunted – again – by that stupid fragment of lyric. Or – non-lyric.

And what worried – unsettled – him about it, about this odd timing, was the suspicion that Feniel had messed with his brain. It wasn’t working the way it should be.

Right now, for instance, what seemed to form in the dense mist in front of him but, as he knew, was really seeping out of the dark corners of his brain, was a mental image of Stiles’ face and that wasn’t, _couldn’t_ , be what he would usually think of on the prowl.

Usually, he’d leave the human world and enter the world of scents, of hunger, and of speed.

But then this guy came along, saved his life even though Derek hadn’t asked him to and never would’ve even if he’d had the chance, then put his finger to Derek’s forehead and twisted something around.

Derek hadn’t felt it then but it wasn’t like he had felt anything else.

But once he could think more clearly again, direct his mind to less depressing things, he had started noticing.

This boy was on his mind.

And he couldn’t get his brain to snap back again.

It was like a fucking farce.

Possum drool, all over again.

He tried to listen to the right lyrics, kept forcing himself back to the correct subject matter, the right train of thoughts and yet his mind kept deviating.

Gradually at first.

Yes, he’d watched the boy. Well, he’d had to, right?

It’s not that he was bound by something like a heavenly contract or whatever.

But he’d given his word. Sort of, at least.

So he’d started watching him and, boy, Stiles got into trouble _a lot_.

So he stood by, watched, kept him safe.

Alive.

And human.

Feniel had been very particular about that one.

It got easier once he, Derek, had joined Scott’s pack. They were all looking out for each other.

And then he, Derek, had started sensing Stiles in a different way.

At first, he’d thought it was because they were both betas of the same pack.

Initially, he’d _truly_ thought it was _normal_ to see Stiles in his dreams. Just as an example.

Then he waited for the other pack members to show up as well but it was only Stiles who sat on a flying cupboard in Beacon Hills High and Stiles who looked up from an open grave in one of Derek’s recurring nightmares. Never Scott or Liam or Mason. Erica and Boyd, yes. But that was a different story and Derek knew it.

So, he’d mistaken the Stiles thing for the natural bond between the wolves of a pack.

  _Everyone_ would think that, yes? Every werewolf, at least.

Right?

 _God_ , it was so _infuriating_.

Ok.

So, naturally, coming back to Beacon Hills now after weeks and weeks in Mexico – what’s more, coming back and joining the pack as a beta – he’d thought he could relax, lean back again. It’s not like Feniel had ever told him what exactly to look out for. Not good with words, that dude.

Still, things got calm, yes?

Yeah, as if.

Here’s the thing.

It started happening gradually.

For instance.

Every time Stiles left a room and his scent vanished with him, Derek felt agitated.

Not much, but enough to worry him. He wasn’t used to losing focus and quite frankly, he felt as if this was the reason why Kate hadn’t missed even though his, Derek’s, speed was almost legendary, why he hadn’t been able to outrun Peter, why fucking Kate had even managed to capture him and drag him to Mexico. Why he never put down a single victory when he’d been an alpha, or properly train his betas or do anything that an alpha usually does.

Why he had _never_ _really_ been an alpha at all.

Because, essentially, he’d already been something else.

Had been made something else at the end of an angel’s fingertip.

Stiles’ guardian.

Awesome.

The dream, right?

It wasn’t Stiles fault, don’t get me wrong.

Not at all and Derek wasn’t mad at him – not always, at least.

But it had dislocated a certain amount of his powers. Picture it like the side effect of some drug or the symptoms accompanying a disorder. It’s not the real problem but it comes with the problem and turns it into an even bigger problem.

Which was probably why, during these moments when his eyes turned green, he might seem a little out of control to Scott, yes, but he _felt_ so _focused_ , alive, so right, it was a miracle.

Ha.

No pun intended.

See?

There it was again.

He shouldn’t be thinking about word games and irony _after_ wolfing out. He might be cynicism impersonate as a human but as a wolf he was part of a different kind of language.

Derek considered changing back in order to at least gain the human illusion of control over his thoughts but then, luckily, the smell of rotten flesh and dried blood seeped in through his snout and all his sense fixated on a few shrubs and small trees about four seconds ahead of him.

Derek didn’t even flinch when a shape crashed through the bushes on his left. It was Liam of course. He’d smelled it, too, the crawling mess of monster ahead of them.

Half-human, half-wolf Liam wasn’t as fast as Derek but he’d be incredibly strong one day.

Not that Derek would ever tell him that.

The young wolf had to make an effort to even fit into the pack as it was. The last thing he needed was an ego-boost.

Liam roared and Derek reacted instantaneously.

He made a leap to the left with the incredible agility that only Derek was capable of and just barely escaped the long talons of the thing that had been lurking in the upturned roots of a tree trunk.

What the fuck.

His human thoughts just wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t focus on his senses, not as he needed to, and this time, it had almost killed him.

Oh great.

Now he owed his life to Liam.

Perfect, this night was just perfect.

“It was just this one... u-urgh. D-Derek...?”

Derek wasn’t particularly eager to shift back now but he knew he had to.

The tree trunk was huge. Derek considered it for a second, leaped on top of it, shifted back and sat down, ignoring the steaming heap of monster that Liam had just shredded.

“....you ok?”

Derek nodded courtly.

Liam threw him his jacket but Derek ignored it.

It hit the trunk and flapped to the ground.

“You throw like a girl.”

Liam blinked but didn’t respond. Derek knew he tried hard not to vomit. God, this kid... probably even more chaotic than Stiles would be as a werewolf.

And there he was again, Stiles. In his thoughts like a leech, draining Derek of his concentration and, quite frankly, his sanity.

Derek let out a growl and jumped up and Liam, taken by surprise, stumbled a few feet back. Derek could hear his heart pound quickly.

“What’s the matter? D-did you sense anything? B-because I-”

“Scott’s coming,” Derek said. “Tell him, I went further east.”

He had already shifted back when he heard Liam mutter, “Where’s east?”

Derek slid into the darkness, straining his senses to detect even the faintest hint of monster. He knew he should run with Liam. They might be the same in rang but Liam was still his junior. Still, Derek needed to sort this out by himself.

His lack of focus was particularly bad tonight and he wasn’t eager to endanger his pack while they were taking down Lucifer’s hellish spawn.

 

 

“And then he just vanished?”

Liam nodded, opened his mouth to say something but then quickly closed it again. He knew Derek was coming and that dude could get really creepy so nope, no way in hell that he would say out loud what he was thinking right now.

Plus, he might be mistaken.

A second later they heard Derek’s steps outside and another two seconds later the man himself was in front of them. He was carrying his leather jacket in his right hand and was just pulling his t-shirt down. Apparently Derek had been getting dressed while walking across the front lawn. Thank God it was dark outside. Then again, old Mrs. McKay from next door probably wouldn’t mind a glimpse at Derek’s body.

“So you really hunt as a full wolf now?” Scott said and Derek nodded.

“Um... isn’t that incredibly – I don’t know... impractical?”

“Keeps me focused. Keeps my senses sharp,” Derek answered.

Scott considered him for a moment.

“You are a man of few words and a thousand mysteries, aren’t you...”

Liam veiled his laughter with a half-hearted cough and Scott grinned at the sour expression on Derek’s face.

“And how did that work out for you? Mh, Derek?”

“Well, Scott,” Derek said, his voice barely containing his anger, “it didn’t – not very well, today at least. But you already know that because Liam just told you.”

“Not very well, huh... so you say you couldn’t focus, not even as a full wolf?”

Derek shook his head, not sure where Scott was going with this.

“And, why do you think that is?”

Derek blinked.

“Well, if you have to know...”

“I’m your alpha,” Scott pointed out.

“Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out. Again.”

Scott’s grin widened.

“If you have to know – my human thoughts keep interfering with my wolf senses – but that’s not half as funny as you think it is, Scott McCall.”

“First, that is hardly the way to address your alpha. You may call me ‘My Lord’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ Second – oh, it is very funny. Like, seriously dude.”

Derek threw Liam a glance who seemed to be shaking with nervous laughter.

“I... need to go call... someone,” he said and scurried out of the room.

“What’s the matter with you? Have you two lost your mind?”

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Scott said soothingly, even though he was still smiling, “you really don’t understand? Even Liam can smell it and his wolf senses aren’t particularly well-developed yet...”

Derek just glared at him.

“The reason you can’t focus? Come on dude...”

They were looking at each other.

“You really don’t have clue?”

“That – angel – he... he messed with my brain – I think, and-,” Derek slowly started but Scott shook his head.

“Derek, you’re alright. Really. You’re just – _seriously_ _horny_.”

 

 

Scott couldn’t be serious.

It was a conspiracy. It _must_ be.

How could he _exude horniness_ – yes, these had been Scott’s exact words – without even being aware of it.

It wasn’t _so_ very embarrassing per se – Derek could sense his alpha’s every mood and change of mind and that wasn’t even talking about Liam who was so much easier to read than Scott _and_ in high puberty, too – but the fact that Derek hadn’t noticed was a puzzle to him.

Why hadn’t he noticed?

Now that he thought about it Scott might be right.

Derek felt relieved and confused at the same time. Relieved because that was an easy-to-solve problem. Yet confused because, well.

The only person constantly on his mind was Stiles.

Ok, whatever.

Derek put on his jacket und slid his right hand into the pocket to fish out his car keys.

He wasn’t going to think about Stiles who wasn’t even here but back home at his own house, all safe.

Derek would go grab a beer and, just to be sure that no unwanted thoughts would interfere with him tonight, he would pick up someone. Anyone. He didn’t really care.

Preferably female.

Derek’s lips twisted into a grin. He unlocked his Camaro.

“Piece ‘o cake...”

 

 

The first thing Stiles saw when he walked into the classroom was Theo.

He felt the blood drain from his face and hated himself a little for it.

The moment Stiles saw him Theo looked up and their eyes met.

Of course.

“Hey, watch out Stilinski.”

Someone shoved him out of the way because Stiles just stood there, mouth half open.

He’d been sure Theo wouldn’t come to school anymore. They’d sort of reached stage two, yes? Freakishly scary devil barely contained by his human vessel and thirsting for blood, for sweat and, most particularly, for pain.

So, naturally, Stiles had thought that stage one – mock-harmless drop dead gorgeous high school bad boy – would be tedious for Theo. A kid’s game he wasn’t interested in anymore.

After all, wasn’t that what he’d said to – _screamed_ at – the ruins of Malia’s bedroom?

That it wasn’t enough?

That, basically, he wanted to, _needed_ to, rip Stiles apart for gratification?

Was there any other way to understand it?

So why wasn’t he haunting some 19th century massacre? There had been enough of them in California alone, Stiles knew that because little devil-boy Theo used to tell him about them in the sandbox, right after he’d made Stiles cut his pinkie and thumb and index finger on the shard of a bottle and bleed onto his mud pie.

And, yes, ten is a perfectly good age to still be playing in the sandbox. Not everyone can afford to be all grown up so soon. Like Mr. Derek Hale, for instance, who was probably born 47. Stiles knew that Derek secretly listened to the Beach Boys and, to his, Stiles’, mind, that would make Derek about a hundred.

Thinking about Derek made him relax a little. Stiles tried to picture Derek’s burning green eyes, think about what they meant and how he had beaten the crap out of Theo a few days ago, and he finally managed to tear his gaze away from Theo’s.

“ _Stiles_ , what’s _wrong_ with you. And that’s _my_ seat, move!”

Yeah, right, that was Sean’s seat. But where was his own?

He absolutely couldn’t remember.

“Hi, Theo,” a black-haired girl, Janine, now said, giving Theo a beaming smile.

Theo who was reading a book didn’t even look up.

And then Stiles, still only a few steps away from him, heard loud and clear what he said next even though Theo merely seemed to whisper the words.

“Light of my life,” he said, “fire of my loins.”

Janine blushed wildly and stumbled into her seat next to Theo's, obviously too agitated to take out her smartphone and tweet what had just happened.

Stiles tried to laugh sarcastically but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a shaky whimper so he added, “Weird much?”

Theo lifted his eyebrows. He raised his voice a little and said,

“Nabokov.”

Stiles just stood there staring at the book cover that, in-between Theo’s thin fingers, read _Lolita_. He knew it was his turn now to say something but there was literally nothing he could think of. Nope, no verb or noun or adjective or – grammar? God. Why did this dude freak him out so much.

Just turn around and fucking sit down, Stiles.

Instead, he watched Theo’s lips curl into one of his soft smiles and his, Stiles’, knees started feeling sort of – rubbery.

“You should read it. Very insightful.”

“Don’t do that Stiles. Nabokov’s a creep,” said Lydia who had come strutting into the room and stopped right in front of Theo’s desk, cherry red lips pursed and arms akimbo.

Theo dropped the book onto his desk where it flapped shut, and leaned forward, eyes fixated on Lydia now.

“It’s fiction, Lydia. The writer is not identical with the protagonist. You know that, right?”

 “Ok then – Humbert Humbert’s a creep,” Lydia said haughtily.

Theo chuckled softly.

“I knew you’ve read it, Lydia. Probably try to be like her, too, mh? Did you know,” and he tilted his head a little to the right, “that the book is based on a true story? Only, in reality, it was a psychopath abducting a little girl and trying to turn her into his very own plaything. Make her perfect.”

Stiles thought he saw Theo’s eyes darken and, following an impulse, he grabbed Lydia’s arm.

“Ouch, Stiles!”

“Class is starting, come on,” Stiles said and tried to drag her away from Theo’s desk.

“ _You don’t even come near him, Theodore Raeken_!” Lydia managed to hiss before Stiles pulled her away. Without even apologizing – in a consequently very un-Stiles-ish move – he shoved her into her own seat two rows in front of Theo.

Son-of-a-bitch was always lurking behind them in every single goddamn classroom and Stiles was pretty certain that he’d very soon feel the overwhelming urge to jump up and dash out of Math. Or History or English, it was just a matter of time until he couldn’t take it anymore. Right now, just the thought of Theo staring at his neck made his hands tremble, and blur his ‘l’s and ‘m’s and blotch his ‘i’s and ‘e’s.

The result of this day would be a very worn out Stiles and a bunch of illegible notes.

 

 

It’s not that Theo was the complete and total center of Stiles’ fear.

Because that’s not how fear works.

It’s more a shifting of the ground under your feet. A hole of dense nothingness opening up behind your right shoulder and threatening to swallow you. Bury you alive in blackness.

A chunk of lead in your thoughts and your heart and weighing down on your shoulders.

Stiles _knew_ that Theo was the problem, yes.

But his mind twisted that around and projected his sense of danger onto – _everything_.

His classmates looked very suspicious all of a sudden and being in the English classroom didn’t feel safe anymore.

Then, going outside, saying “Sorry, Miss Matheson? I need to step outside for a minute,” and then just _trying_ not to run but slowly _walk_ out of the room as if he really _just_ needed a restroom break, that didn’t help. Being in the hallway or in front of the building seemed dangerous, hell, Stiles felt unsafe walking about on a planet that was, face it, really just dangling in the sky.

Yeah, yeah, physics and stuff but his _brain_ told him where the danger _really_ was and he _felt_ it, too.

It’s what they call fight or flight, yes?

Only, with the devil literally on your tracks there’s nowhere to run to.

Nowhere, nowhere, fucking _nowhere_.

Stiles extended his hand to touch the trunk of a sycamore tree and it soothed the turmoil inside of him a little bit.

It was just a panic attack. A huge one but still.

Can’t kill ya, right?

He waited for a few seconds and then fumbled his smartphone out of his pocket, accidentally opened Angry Birds, then the Camera App then turned on the flashlight until he could make his finger open Whatsapp and type,

‘Un henfrl swurht a lalerm must house et.’

He shook his head, took two deep breaths, deleted the message and typed, more slowly this time,

‘I’m fine, need a moment, catch up with you in a few.’

Scott must have felt the panic rising and rising in Stiles’ throat so his best friend was probably almost as much in agony as he was now. Well, not exactly.

Scott’s skin didn’t burn viciously and Stiles was glad about that.

Ok, alright.

Better.

A lot better. Good.

Stiles exhaled again and held his breath. Hyperventilating just made him feel like he’d pass out any second which always stressed him out even more because it just added to the anxiety, so he forced himself to breathe in slowly.

And out again.

Then he directed his steps away from the tree and the bicycle rack and back inside through the double doors again.

Down the empty hallway, steady, always moving in the direction of his painkillers, ibuprofen pills in a blister pack that was currently being flattened in-between the history book and an issue of _Amazing Stories_ in his bag which was sitting next to his desk in the History classroom. And that’s all he would allow himself to think about for the next minute. And maybe about the wildly inaccurate drawing of the Moon People in the _Amazing Stories_ cover art. Four arms, really?

Until he could trust his legs again to not do the right thing and take flight.

 

 

“That’s not what it said on the blackboard and – is that a 3? No, a 5. At least, it _should_ be a 5,” Lydia said, staring at the topmost piece of paper of a stack of loose sheets that looked like someone had squished five hundred ants on them.

She was looking through them while walking down the hallways with Scott on her right side and Stiles on her left. Stiles kept bumping into people.

“Wow, your handwriting is _really_ illegible. And – were you in a coma during History? Because it just says: ‘1523,’ ‘King Edward’ and... Cheeseburger? What the hell.”

“Yeah, Lydia, that’s exactly my point – can you _please_ lend me your notes? Pretty please?”

“Fine.”

Lydia rolled up the sheets, tucked them under her left shoulder and started rummaging through her bag while firmly squeezing three books and a bottle of organic juice to her body with her right arm.

“Wow,” Scott said obviously impressed by Lydia’s dexterity but Stiles just mumbled, “Sorry. Excuse me. Oh, sorry, Jim. Sorry,” to the people he bumped into until Lydia had finally gathered all her notes from four different classes out of seven different books (two of which were currently in the process of being pressed against her chest, favorably pushing up her cleavage).

Stiles took the notes, thanked Lydia and threw a quick look onto the top page.

AP Chemistry. Ah, great.

He wasn’t even in that course.

But still better than trying to figure out Chemistry for dummies alone at home later on. Like this, he could still call Lydia and get her to explain everything to him step by step.

“Ok, I’ll quickly run these through the scanner in the library.”

“Don’t be late, Econ starts in 15,” Lydia said.

After Stiles had turned the corner, Scott was still staring at Lydia’s huge purple bag.

“It looks like a giant flower on a foreign planet and it’s like Hermione’s bottomless magic bag,” he said. “Do you always bring all your makeup to school?”

Lydia tossed a strand of hair out of her face and stuffed a writing pad and cherry red lipstick back into her bag while simultaneously putting on her cute auburn leather jacket.

“Please. That’s not _all_ my makeup. And I can do a full makeover while grooming Paws _and_ explaining ‘Zur Quantentheorie der Strahlung’ to you.”

She didn’t even turn her head to acknowledge the confused look on Scott’s face.

“Einstein,” she said as if that explained everything.

“Right,” Scott said and followed her into the classroom.

The second thing he noticed – after Kira who was smiling at him from her seat by the window – was the absence of Theo’s disgustingly grinning face.

Directly followed by Theo’s absence.

Uh, great.

That couldn’t be good.


	17. OMICRON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles in the library. Chris Argent remembers a silly poem. Stiles is in for a plot twist. Theo's driving a nice car.

You force yourself to breathe in and out at a regular pace but, like the predator you’ll never not be, you cannot suppress the manic gleam creeping into your eyes, the excitement that’s slowly but surely bubbling to the surface. The fact that people are throwing you glances, girls are flicking their eyes in your direction, only contributes to your exhilaration.

You’re being watched. You always are.

That’s really easy to explain, too. Humans instinctively sense power. And there’s hardly anything on the planet right now more powerful than you.

You can feel it pulsate through your veins and rush to your brain but since you’re far more than human these feelings do not interfere with your thoughts.

Your plan.

Your eyes are already zeroing in on the brown double doors to the Beacon Hills High library and it’s like – you can almost smell him already.

Ok, easy.

It’s vital that you don’t lose control now.

You push open the door and strut down the rows of books. Take a left at the last shelf, go up the five steps of stairs and turn left again, up another flight of stairs and walk down more rows of shelves until you reach the sign indicating the letters ‘Ki – Kp.’ You inhale deeply and smell dust and paper and, oh yes, there it is.

Caramel and coffee and something else you were never quite able to pinpoint.

The delicious cocktail that is Stiles.

He’s only a few feet away from you now, behind the door on your right. He’s making copies of Lydia’s notes and as soon as you detect his moist heartbeat your own heart rate goes up.

Everything’s so clear now.

What you have to do, what Stiles has to do.

It all makes sense. If your plan works out – and it would be ludicrous to assume that it couldn’t given _who you are_ – you’ll soon experience heights hitherto unknown to you.

But, wait.

Before you go in, savor that moment. It’s one thing you learned, _had to_ learn, admittedly, to slow down and enjoy. Which sounds easier than it is because you’re bored so fucking quickly.

That being said, do it now.

Stop in front of the door.

You can hear the rhythmic _srrrrr_ of the copy machine and the _ba-dum ba-dum_ of Stiles’ heart.

Shut out the rustling and bustling of the library around you for a few seconds, the smell of dust and skin and the shuffling of sneakers on the PVC floor, and think back now.

Try and recall the moment in Malia’s bedroom. You stood there in the middle of the debris and felt this _rage_ boiling up in your throat and tugging at you from the inside. It wouldn’t have been long and you’d have peeled out of this skin. This beautiful, flawless skin.

And then it hits you.

Malia touches your shoulder and you flick your eyes over to Stiles who’s on the floor and in so much pain, and it’s like an epiphany.

Who knew that being human would harbor all these possibilities? That it could carry this kind of depth?

And when Derek Hale comes flying into the room – you really need to make a mental note to torture this bothersome werewolf to death – it doesn’t really matter. The moron’s in a trance – Phaniel’s work, of course – and they all think he’s about to rip your human vessel apart, when, in reality, _you’re_ the one still in control of the whole situation.

You’re in control and you’re only starting.

The bliss of the discovery is pulsating through your body and is mending the damage more quickly than Derek can inflict it, and the only reason you’re not ending the green-eyed clown right then and there is that you don’t want to ruin the sacred moment with piercing screams and gore. While that would certainly underscore the significance of this particular moment, it would also be so very inconvenient. Bits of flesh and inner organs everywhere and should Malia not manage to clean up every last shred, after a few days, it would start to smell and she wouldn’t be able to stop vomiting and, surprisingly, _that’s_ something you can’t help but find off-putting.

Also, you’ve realized that Derek Hale’s magic strength seems to give Stiles a certain sense of security which is probably the only thing protecting his mind from cracking. So, let them believe for a little longer that Derek can actually hold you at bay. You finally know how to get gratification and it’s all that matters right now.

 

Good.

Enough reminiscing.

You’re ready and, probably, even calm enough.

Start walking towards the door now. Extend your right arm to push it open.

It’s time to try out your theory.

Time to claim Stiles.

 

 

Time to sort this out.

Derek forcefully pushes the doors open. The whole situation makes him uncomfortable so he really needs to get this thing over with as quickly as possible. However, instead of stepping up to the enormous cross suspended from the ceiling as planned and, well, _getting it over with_ , Derek stops short and looks around, a puzzled expression on his face. Damn these damn Catholics... About fifty people are gathered in the small church and they’re all looking at him. He just burst into the Northern Beacon County All Saints Congregation’s Wednesday afternoon service. Afternoon service, Is that even a thing? Then again, a good Catholic is probably in church every day.

Whatever, this is definitely awkward.

So change of plans. Maybe just apologize a thousand times, withdraw in embarrassment and come back another time.

Or never.

Catholic churches are not really his piece of cake anyway. Way outside his comfort zone. Then again, so was the mosque he’d just been to or the synagogue he’d paid a visit this morning.

Derek understands neither hijabs nor kippas or frankincensce.

In fact, the very concept of religion always seemed kind of strange to him, with the funny sounding words and bizarre little rituals. And what’s more, as it turns out they offer maddeningly little explanation for a problem that’s supposed to lie in their fucking area of expertise.

“Derek!”

Quick steps behind him. Rather than getting into the driver’s seat, Derek pushed the door of his car shut again, puts the keys back into his leather jacket.

“Chris,” he says matter-of-factly and turns to face him.

Yes, he’s on a first name basis with Chris Argent, has been for a few months now.

If you think about it, it’s not really that surprising. During their time together in Mexico they realized how much they actually had in common. They’ve both lost everything that had ever meant anything to them and nonetheless have to keep going somehow.

“That was kind of a...”

“Weird performance? Good to see you again, Chris.”

Argent gives Derek one of his calculating looks and Derek resists the urge to cast his own eyes downwards. Pale blue eyes. That’s probably what Edgar Allan Poe was talking about.

Finally, Argent gives him a brief nod. They shake hands.

“You, too, Derek.”

But why then does everything he says still sound like ‘I’m keeping a close eye on you’?

“So. You seem... nervous.”

A statement.

Oh yes, Argent’s probably the best hunter Derek has ever seen. Except maybe for –

“Not that I’m too eager to even ask for that, Chris, but – do you think it’s possible that I talk to Gerard? We’re having a little – situation here.”

“Apart from the monsters you mean?”

Argent lifts his eyebrows at him and Derek nods.

“Yup. But directly... er, related to the monsters. Causing them, in fact.”

“Not necessary to beat around the bush, Derek. I do know about Lucifer. Deaton filled me in.”

“Yeah, well... then you still don’t know the half of it.” Derek inhales deeply trying to shut out thoughts about how tired he is and how little he wants to talk right now. He hasn’t really slept much that night. Or at all.

“I’ll tell you the whole story if you take me to Gerard. It just occurred to me that if anyone knows, it would probably be him.”

“About stopping Lucifer?”

They are walking over to Argent’s car now and Argent unlocks it.

Derek opens the passenger door and is momentarily startled.

The car still smells faintly like Allison.

Derek doesn’t have to flick his eyes to the back seat to know that her grey sweater is still lying exactly where she carelessly threw it half a year ago, and he can’t help but deeply pity Argent for not being able to pick up his dead daughter’s lingering scent with his human nose.

But that’s the thing. It’s why they work so well together.

Their common – and only – goal is to protect Scott’s pack. Derek’s because it’s programmed into his genes and Argent’s because his daughter died for them.

Derek puts on the seat belt and says with a smirk, “I didn’t know you were a Catholic.”

Argent shrugs.

“Tried this and that... turns out that while they keep talking about sins and evil they know surprisingly little about the devil and his – ilk.” The last word is being forced out through gritted teeth. “And they’ll say stuff like: come to the 3p.m. service and we can talk after, maybe have a nice little round of ‘recite your favorite Bible passage’?”

Derek nods again.

“Figured.”

“And what did you want in there? Pray for heavenly intervention?”

Argent tilts his head at him and starts the engine.

“... I tried to – _contact_ someone, if you must know and - can we please not talk about it.”

Derek knows that Argent can guess the rest and can probably even sense just exactly how stupid Derek is currently feeling. Trying to visit every place of worship in Beacon County in order to send a prayer to Heaven, or Zion, or Azeroth, or whatever the hell they call it, in order to contact a stupid fucking angel – or whatever this dude really is, who knows – who never bothered to show up when they – when _Stiles_ – really needed him in the first place. Who apparently likes outsourcing his own fucking job to clueless werewolves. Who probably doesn’t even want to be contacted.

Derek’s idea seems so utterly idiotic now that he’s honestly ashamed of himself.

Thankfully Argent contents himself with smiling knowingly but refrains from further mockery. For now.

They take off with squealing tires which is completely unnecessary and, despite everything, Derek can’t help but nod approvingly.

Yes, deep down they’re really more alike than either of them would ever admit.

 

 

As soon as you open the door your eyes fall on Stiles who’s sitting on the narrow table that is pushed back against the wall right next to the copy machine. He has both feet drawn up to his chest, his sneakers half-covering a sign glued onto the table top that says ‘DO NOT SIT ON TABLE’ in bright red letters. The copy machine is silent and the stack of papers that is sitting on Stiles’ left tells you that he’s done but, for some reason, couldn’t bring himself to get up and walk back to the classroom.

When the door creaks open and then shuts with a low thud Stiles turns his head and stares blankly at you. There’s not even fear in his eyes. He just seems tired and, somehow, this sort of puts the break on your excitement. Which is not altogether a bad thing since, remember, you’re at school right now and you need to act normal. Normal-ish.

“Theo,” Stiles says now as if you were just anyone who just happened to walk in, like, totally by accident, and it makes you snicker. Yeah, he seems fatigued and broken alright but he really isn’t. Come on, you tortured him into unconsciousness not too long ago and yet, this remark was clearly meant to challenge you. He’s still the old loudmouth, that is apparent, the same old Stiles without a brain-to-mouth filter he’s always been.

Don’t let him fool you.

You can smell his fear now, his anxiety and stress level rising, but what he’s really doing is inviting you to come over to him, to subject him again and, this time, more thoroughly. Like – he wants to be taught a lesson. It’s in his eyes that he keeps averted but – see that?

That just now?

He can’t help but glance at you and then pretend like he wishes you didn’t see it.

Like he’s playing the abashed virgin and, at the same time, sends you a look like _Ha, you think I belong to you? You wish!_

Stiles is really good at these games.

It’s one of the reasons he’s remained your favorite.

Ah right, there, see that?

The way he put the stack of sheets in-between you and him like a border, like wanting to say _Come on, come here, I dare you_.

It’s enough to get your blood boiling.

You’ve drawn closer, standing right in front of him now and you admire his face.

The thing about it is that he’s not the most handsome person you’ve ever seen because, clearly, that’s yourself – or, well, Theo Raeken, your human vessel.

Stiles is not the smartest person you’ve ever met or the wittiest and yet.

And yet.

There’s just something about his mouth now.

About the way it curls downwards a little at the ends as if in displeasure and becomes thinner because he’s so tense. About the way he hesitates briefly and then locks eyes with you, a mixture of fear and defiance in them. The way he seems to have complete control over every bit and piece of his face which gives every one of his emotions this incredible depth.

He’d be a great actor, come to think of it.

And he’s raising his eyebrows in near mockery even though he’s so fucking terrified of you.

Challenge accepted.

Your haughty smile widens into a grin.

Now deliver the line smoothly, the way you practiced in your head while walking here.

“Just wanted to check on you. Stiles. I’ve been meaning to ask you something... Er... do you want to meet at the Chipotle on Main Street after school?” Now pretend like you’re hesitating, like you really want him to come but dare not say so because you don’t want to pressure him, see, since you’re a normal teenager who’s a little insecure despite everything, “It’s just a bunch of guys meeting and talking about baseball but – thought you’d be interested.”

Stiles’ reaction is even better than it was in your head.

He’s actually rendered speechless for a few moments. Then, rather than pale, as you expected, his cheeks flush, turn the faintest shade of red like he’s still got it in him to be _angry_ at you. Like you haven’t already taken everything from him and acts of resistance are still meaningful.

“Fuck the hell off, Theo. _Fuck_. Don’t even come near me you sick motherfucker.”

You raise your eyebrows at him like _Dude, was that really necessary, it was just an invitation_ , and of course, _of course_ , that gets him to add, “Why do you even cling to your dumb fucking games? You want to torture me eternally and I want to have you fucking erased from existence.”

He’s outraged, his heart’s beating so fast.

God, he’s in the palm of your hand.

He’s angry but at the same time, yes, a little confused. Just the tiniest bit and you know a little voice in the back of his head is asking him if you are really actually that evil.

Right now, he’s thinking ‘You _are_ the devil, or... are you?’

That’s right.

Keep him guessing.

So you shrug.

You wait, then shrug a second time and frown and say with the slightest hint of confusion, “Just asking, bro.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Stiles’ feet hit the floor with a thump. He just jumped from the table and, God, does he want to hurt you. You can see it in his eyes and the way his jaw muscles move under his skin.

“You – _you_...”

Oh, the things he wants to say to you right now. He wants to punch you and yell at you and punish you for everything you did to him but he can’t put words to it all and you, you stand there and keep watching his mouth and all of a sudden, you can’t take it anymore.

Enough played.

You stop Stiles mid-sentence by grabbing him by the shoulders, violently, you really dig your fingers into his skin, not in a way that would draw blood but in a way that has him yelp with pain and surprise and you crash your mouth onto his and for a few seconds you don’t really feel anything because, spreading in your body, is still the rush of endorphins from being able to _just fucking do that_.

It’s why the game is so important.

You play until you feel almost human, _almost_ humbled and mortal, and get a sense of what normal people can and can’t do and then, all of a sudden, you cross that border and get a taste of your own power.

Don’t do it too often because the illusion will wear out quickly.

But this – that feeling in your stomach and, quite frankly, your _dick_ – that has never happened before and it was totally worth all the years of playing and pretending.

To elaborate.

You kissed Stiles before.

Remember?

Because you knew his friends would come in you kissed him to shock them and Stiles a little?

And once more, way before that?

To see what his Mommy’s reaction would be when she ‘caught’ you two kissing on Stiles’ bed? And yeah, it was hilarious. She got this really weird look on her face and withdrew like she walked in on something she shouldn’t have seen and then, the week after, dragged Stiles to a child therapist. Not really a homophobe, his old lady, but deeply worried about her son’s troubling behavior.

Hilarious.

Right?

So you kissed him before but it was just a means to an end.

You didn’t pay any attention to what it felt like, you were too concentrated on not missing a single second of Stiles’ shocked reaction. Heart bursting with blissful anticipation.

Now though.

You can taste him on your lips and tongue, and then feel his tongue trying to move out of the way like it’s really trying to wiggle out of his mouth just to get away from you and you inhale Stiles’ scent.

Another heartbeat and then, as expected, he breaks away, grabs your shoulder and pushes you from him. Then he just stands there, panting like he’s run a marathon, anger boiling up on the inside.

Eyes narrowed in anger.

And you smile.

Because there we are alright.

You put your hands in your pockets and lick across your lips to show that not only did you just actually do that but you can still taste him and he snaps.

He actually jumps at you, shoving you so hard you stumble backwards and, because the room is so small, your back hits the wall.

And Stiles isn’t done yet.

He’s coming at you again, fist raised, and punches you with everything he has and you can feel your skin bruise and crack instantly.

You turn your head back and just in time, too, to see him raise his fist again, and there he goes, a second time, and even though his hand must hurt by now he’s not done, not by far.

What you feel right now, it’s bliss and there’s an open, honest smile on your bloody lips.

Stiles is exactly where you want him.

It’s happening.

You’re ready.

 

 

Of course they’d find Gerard sitting in a swivel chair rather than a wheelchair.

Because he absolutely needs to turn around in it slowly as soon as someone knocks on his door. Because he’s a fucking super-villain.

Derek rolls his eyes and he can just sense that this will be the first of many times because they haven’t even started talking.

He follows Chris into the room and the nurse closes the door behind them.

Gerard who seems to have been doing a crossword turns around with his chair at glacier speed, just as Derek expected, and says, “Well, well, well... Look who we have here,” and Derek rolls his eyes again.

Aw, great.

This is going to be.

Just.

God, he feels so tired, he doesn’t even have spare energy for sarcastic thoughts.

He lets Chris and his father exchange a few words and it seems like Gerard already knows a great deal about the monsters.

Derek is not surprised.

When they were still discussing the matter in Chris’ car the thought struck him – just for a moment – that Gerard might actually be on Lucifer’s payroll.

There must be a bunch of things that Lucifer has to give and that Gerard could want.

Derek was surprised, shocked almost, at the realization that he’d been so fucking busy shredding gooey monster-things that he never really thought about the full impact of their recent discovery.

The devil actually exists, and then all the different shades of horrible to that.

“So Lucifer is back.”

Gerard leans back in his chair and Derek wants to punch the smug smile out of his old, wrinkled face.

Chris Argent is actually too shocked at his father’s reaction to even say something like _You knew about this and never told me?_

Derek, on the other hand, feels like they’re already losing time, like he should actually be somewhere else right now, and says, “Is there anything you can tell us, Gerard?”

“Derek Hale. Rude and impatient as always,” Gerard says with the most grandfatherly emphasis on every single word, drawing out the endings like he belongs to a generation that was still brought up to a more sophisticated way of talking.

“We could really use your help,” Argent says and the omitted word, _father_ , seems to linger in the room for a few seconds.

 “Yes, well, we could all use _something_ ,” Gerard huffs and Chris Argent narrows his eyes.

“You’re going to tell me you knew all along where these... _things_ came from? That you know more than anyone else about them? More than the McCranstons or Old Lima?”

Gerard raises his eyebrows at his son which makes his forehead look even more like parchment.

“Lima, that old hag? If you ask me, when she dealt with that Drakar up in the Black Hills, her mind sort of cracked. Her hunter instincts are a joke now and she’s not even much of a potion master anymore. Has definitely seen better days... and me knowing about the monsters? No, I didn’t know about them. But in theory, I knew about _Lucifer_ , of course. And so did you. Or, you had, if you spent more time on our sacred teachings and less on collaborating with the creatures you’re supposed to hunt down, that is.”

“So what are you saying?” Derek interrupts them. He’s been in a bad mood all day and doesn’t feel like he can endure a fatherly lesson about teaching and learning. From Gerard, no less.

“Can we or can’t we do anything about him?”

Glowering at Gerard.

Who is arrogant enough to not be offended because he says, “Remember what we say, Chris. About balance. Remember our sacred teachings.”

And then he stops, startled but Derek doesn’t really see it anymore. He is distracted for a moment, like he’s listening to a far-away call.

Someone is calling him.

It’s only when he realizes that the room has all the wrong colors and that both Argents are staring at him in utter amazement that he understands what is going on.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and lets his eyes fade back to hazel. He’s pretty good at it by now, at shifting between green and blue and hazel, that is. Only how to access green, he’s not quite sure about that. Which is also why they’re here.

“Holy God,” Gerard says and it’s obvious that Derek’s change of eye color is the most stunning thing he has seen all day. Perhaps all week.

“What’s the matter? Derek?,” Chris says and Derek shakes his head curtly to shut him up. As if their talking would keep him from hearing _it_.

“Omicron,” Gerard whispers.

“I beg your pardon?” Derek says, annoyed. Whatever it was, he lost it again. The signal or whatever. He’s just hoping Stiles is alright.

“What did you say, Gerard?” Chris Argent flicks his eyes over to his father.

“Omicron,” Gerard repeats, now clearly agitated and he makes an effort to actually rise from his chair.

“Omicron! Derek, do it again!,” he commands.

Derek blinks at the old man who has risen to his full height in front of him now – he’s taller than Derek.

“Your eyes were green.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Don’t you know what it means?”

“Would I be here if I did,” Derek says drily. Yes, asking Gerard for help is probably one of the lowest points he’s ever been at and he’s not sure if he’s glad or worried that Gerard seems to know something about Derek’s new eye color and sudden surges of energy.

The old man is still staring at Derek’s face as if the werewolf were an apparition.

“Omicron...”

“You keep _saying_ that but what does it _mean_ ,” Chris says sharply.

“You morons!,” Gerard responds and Derek can’t shake the bizarre image of Gerard plotting world domination and cursing his evil sidekicks. _You morons, I said nuclear blast not fruit blast!_

“Did you _really_ think there’s only alpha, beta and omega?”

Chris Argent and Derek shrug.

Yeah.

That’s pretty much exactly what they were thinking.

Even though the memory of _something_ is clearly creeping over Argent’s face now and he says, “Does that have anything to do with that silly nursery rhyme?”

Gerard just looks at his son who sighs.

“Oh, come on, dad, you can hardly call _that_ sacred teaching. It’s not even in the book. Just a stupid story grandparents tell their kids.”

The _dad_ seems to have done it because Gerard says, “I didn’t think my own son would be so stupid to slight oral knowledge – the _original_ form of knowledge preservation. What’s in the bestiary is only a sad fragment of the stories we once had about how the world is being held together. We _once_ had because people are too fucking arrogant to consider anything important that’s not written down in a goddamn book.”

Derek and Chris both look at Gerard in silence.

Waiting for him to continue because it actually and truly seems like he can tell them something useful about this whole mess.

Who would’ve thought.

“The Greek letters are only convenient symbols, too, because that knowledge is not particularly Greek. It’s rather... global.”

Gerard considers the two men for a moment, then shakes his head and sits down in his chair again with a face like his back and feet are aching.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

“But that’s just gibberish,” Chris says now. “It was something like... mh... wait. Yes, that’s it: alpha, peak of day, beta, preserve and gather, gamma, lead rho and tau astray, delta, home and harbor, epsilon... er...dark of night. No, wait. Epsilon, _bluest_ night. Yeah. But you can’t be serious, I mean – children just like chanting bullshit like that because it sounds so odd. It _rhymes_ , for God’s sake.”

Chris Argent frowns, obviously trying to remember more of it, and Derek would have found the whole thing entertaining if he didn’t have the pressing feeling that he was missing out on something somewhere else at this very moment. He can feel the energy bubble up in his throat and isn’t particularly comfortable with it.

“Ok. What’s omicron? Just tell me,” Chris asks after a brief silence like he’s given up.

Gerard pauses, probably for the dramatic effect, and then starts reciting slowly, “Mu, the sister, nu, the brother, xi, us turn around, omicron’s another, pi still stands-”

“-in balance,” Chris interrupts, finishing the line. “Yeah... I remember the rest now. Rho, the end and sigma, the beginning, tau, hush, eternal silence, upsilon, cry out in pain, phi, the spark and sacred. And so on. And there was this little routine we would do. We’d all squat on the ground and whisper ‘tau’ and then jump up and yell ‘upsilon.’ Like a bunch of... well, kids. On ‘xi’ you turn around and face the person next to you.”

“And what do you do on omicron?” Gerard says, patiently and in his most teacherly voice, and Chris wrinkles his eyebrows again like he’s thinking.

“We raised our hands up like this, straight up in the air,” and he mimics the gesture, “as high as we could and then, on ‘pi,’ we’d put them together like _this_ and form a roof over our heads.”

Gerard nods.

Derek for his part has had enough of the cryptic and slightly disturbing memory session.

“Omicron’s another? What does that even mean?”

Gerard smiles suggestively, then responds, “Isn’t that clear?”

No.

It fucking isn’t.

Derek doesn’t have time for that.

“I’d love to continue this bizarre conversation but I really have to be somewhere. Chris,” and he nods at Argent who nods back and within seconds Derek is out of the room and on his way to Beacon Hills High. It’s within walking distance.

Which gives him a full ten minutes to think about what just happened.

Omicron?

What was that supposed to mean?

Alpha, beta, omega – omicron?

He knew alpha, and beta made perfect sense to him as well, but what’s an omicron?

Oh, and now, of course, he can’t get the stupid word out of his brain anymore.

And isn’t that all he ever wanted. More nonsensical lines to add to _She goes with me to a possum drool_.

_Possum drool, alpha peak of day, omicron’s another._

Fucking great.

So much for asking for help.

Derek was done with that for all eternity.

 

 

 

 

“What’s the fucking matter with you? Aren’t you into torture or something? So what’s this supposed to be?”

Stiles is wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater again and again but the taste in his mouth doesn’t go away. It just – _lingers_.

Theo for his part just stands there, smiling absentmindedly like the fucking maniac he is. Lines of blood are making their way down his chin and Stiles acknowledges his swollen lip with dark satisfaction.

“Why don’t you ever defend yourself?”

And why is Stiles still here, talking to that beast?

Something about what just happened unsettles Stiles. More than anything else Theo could have done. It was just fucking _weird_ is what it was.

He watches as the lines of blood are being sucked back into Theo’s skin.

“You’re always so negative, Stiles... But I tell you what.”

He wipes his mouth and even though it’s the same gesture Stiles made a mere minute ago, by doing it he doesn’t look like Stiles at all.

“I know how much you like...,” Theo raises his eyebrows at him, “the whole – _torture_ thing.”

Stiles can only snort at the pathetic attempt at a joke.

“And, let’s be honest, it’s not like you could _run_ from me. So...,” and his voice is a soft whisper now and Stiles has to strain his ears to even catch what Theo’s saying even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear what comes next, “... why don’t we just _pause_ our old game for a while.”

“Pause.”

Stiles can’t help but repeat the word, the whole situation is so ridiculous.

“Pause,” Theo says. “You know – exchange it for something new and more exciting.”

He knew it, oh God.

And there he was thinking that Theo was behaving strangely but he was just the same old monster, playing the same old games. Trying to find new ways to torture him.

Because he gets bored so easily, Lucifer. He’s simply been around for too long.

“I give you my word to take a break on the torture. Listen – I’ll be a little more gentle and _you_ are gonna let me. Ok?

This isn’t good, isn’t good at all. Just leave, Stiles, fucking move your ass out the door and go home. Or go catch the rest of the English lesson if you must.

Just don’t let him get into your head.

“You want it to stop, right?” A soft chuckle. “Come on, Stiles. I know you do.”

“So what,” Stiles clears his throat that is really dry all of a sudden.

He’s actually considering this.

He can’t believe himself. He must be fucking nuts. Or desperate.

“If I said... yes,” coughing, “what can you offer me in return?”

Theo, hands in his pockets, droplets of blood on his green t-shirt, nods approvingly. Like, you finally got it, you’re finally thinking about this, took you long enough.

“I can give you my word that I will not cut up your skin any more. Or burn you. Or whip you. Do any of the things to you that the two of us have had so much fun with. Or make _you_ do these things to yourself. Nothing that would qualify as torture. Cruelty is just my nature but I can cut out the torture part. I mean, that depends – would you like me to? You know...”

“No, spell it out to me. Just so we’re clear here,” Stiles says. He feels empty, calm. It’s not a bad feeling.

It’s like he can finally glimpse the road ahead and it’s – okay.

It’s alright because he never even expected to get out of this alive, or sane, to begin with.

“No restraining Stiles and torturing him, in body or soul.”

“No haunting Stiles in his dreams either.”

“No haunting,” Theo agrees, nodding.

“No more monsters.”

Theo shrugs.

“Whatever you say.”

“And you promise to never harm any of my friends – or any one in general. You’ll just be a normal teenager.”

Theo frowns at him. Like this is a lot to ask and he really needs to consider if Stiles is worth it. Then he nods once, slowly.

“You have my word. And I want-”

“I know what you want,” Stiles interrupts him, grimacing. He’s pretty sure that he’ll back out of this if Theo draws him a picture. “I just wonder why. Didn’t you say you’re, and I quote, _not interested in_ _these things_?”

Theo smirks.

“Yeah, well... Times change, people change. You’re human, you should know that.”

Stiles blinks at him suspiciously. This is so unlike Lucifer. He likes the taste of Stiles’ defiance. But maybe that’s it. Defiant he’ll still be but on the inside. So maybe Theo’s just thirsting for a different kind of resistance.

“So?”

“So...,” Stiles says slowly. “So... ok.”

Ah well, what the hell.

Whatever.

“ _Ok_?”

“Ok.”

Theo smirks and extends both hands and Stiles stares down at them. He’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening right now but there’s this ringing in his ears, like an alarm clock someone forgot to turn off far away and he can’t concentrate.

This is probably unbelievably stupid.

He’s literally making a deal with the devil.

But he ran out of options long ago so he takes Theo’s hands. They’re warm and soft and his grip is firm. Thin purple threads shoot out from under Theo’s sleeve and screw around his wrist. When they creep up to the tips of Stiles’ fingers he flinches but doesn’t draw his hands back.

An intricate web of interwoven purple lines soon covers their hands. It’s glowing softly and pulsating like it has a heartbeat.

_Ba-dum._

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

It feels hot and tight and very – final.

After a few seconds the magic threads fade away and Theo slowly lets go of him.

Stiles feels exhausted all of a sudden so he shuffles over to the table but then can’t decide where exactly to sit down so he continues to just stand there.

“So... what happens if I break the vow?”

Good thinking. Ask that _after_ you agreed to what’s probably a life and death pact.

“I’ll get to take you with me.”

“With you?” Stiles rubs his eyes and forehead but the dizziness only grows stronger. Like his brain is updating in the background and he can only run simple bodily functions like breathing and standing upright and asking himself whether he’s made a big, big mistake.

“Yeah. The only scenario in which I’d actually be able to take a human back down to below. To _my_ world.”

“And what happens when you break it?”

“If I broke it,” Theo says, “I would pay by giving up my key.”

“Your... what?”

“My key. That allows me to enter earthly planes. I would be stuck down there for quite a while.”

“I thought time didn’t matter to you.”

“It doesn’t. I’m just putting this in words you’ll understand.”

“How come you’re so – _tame_? Answering questions and fuck,” Stiles says and, God, why is he so tired, for God’s sake.

Theo laughs again.

“When have I ever not answered any of your questions, Stiles? And, truthfully, too.”

Well, he was right.

Paradoxically, the devil has never been much of a liar.

Plus, he’s always loved lecturing Stiles which would have been interesting if Theo didn’t have this fondness for bizarre and terrifying details about life and death.

“So you’d be locked in hell, basically, is what you’re saying.”

“Hell.” Theo snorts and shakes his head. “I knew better words for where I come from but if you want to stick to narrow-minded categories, please, feel free. But yeah... that’s the thought, you see. It’s a vow between worlds – a firm link between dimensions, if you will. Breaking it excludes me – or you – from interacting for a while but given that I’m more powerful than you could ever imagine the price I would pay is also higher than you can imagine. You’d only lose your life up here. Since I can’t lose my life, I’d lose depth.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“I know. How to translate into temporal and spatial terms... well, let’s just say, I’d be gone for longer than your reality would last on earth, to keep things simple for simple minds. But don’t get any ideas. I’m aware of the import of the vow. And I’ve never once messed up and it’s unlikely that I ever will. It’s in my _nature_ to respect it.”

“Oh. Good,” Stiles says because he can’t think of anything else. Despite what Theo’s saying, there’s this idea in Stiles’ mind, of a world, _his_ world, rid of Theo. The smallest chance has just opened up for him and he can’t believe it. He just has to get the fucking devil to break his vow – so to physically harm Stiles or any other living creature on purpose. That shouldn’t be too hard.

Right?

Ok, maybe a _little_ hard.

Seeing that soft smile appear on Theo’s face again now Stiles can’t help but feel weak. Like he’ll never get the best of this _thing_ in front of him. He’s more powerful than anything Stiles will ever know – not only smart but beyond concepts like intelligence or strength. So how on earth is he supposed to trick him?

Granted, there’s this human vessel he’s inhabiting but how much impact can it really have on him? He’s the king of _hell_ – or whatever that place is called – for God’s sake.

“Since we’re both on the same page now...,” Theo says, putting a halt to Stiles’ train of thoughts. He steps closer and grabs Stiles’ wrist and Stiles closes his eyes. He expected that, of course, but it’s still the weirdest of all feelings when it happens.

When Stiles lets it happen.

First, Theo tugs at his arm and when Stiles doesn’t stumble forward, Theo simply closes the gap between them with another step. Then he carefully puts his mouth onto Stiles’ and lets his tongue slide in-between Stiles’ lips.

Stiles for his turn just stands there, frozen in place, struggling with himself to bear it, stand still and fucking bear it. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s allowed to do but he’s pretty sure that pushing Theo away isn’t one of the things. So he manages to stand there, trembling fists in the pockets of his sweater and focuses on the horrible and painful things that Theo could be doing to him instead. He feels Theo lick at the insides of his mouth and nudge his tongue to respond and feels like he’s going to be sick.

Then it’s over. Theo lets go of his hand and, God, finally, of his mouth as well.

“That wasn’t too bad for a start.”

Stiles can’t say anything.

He just – he can’t.

It’s not enough, huh?

So that’s what’s _enough_ for Theo?

What the...

 

 

 

“So – you basically only have to cheat on him and make him really mad, right? That’s easy!”

Stiles shakes his head in exasperation. Even though he knew that his pack wouldn’t get it right away, it was taking them ridiculously long this time, especially Scott.

“He doesn’t have a fucking crush on me, Scott. That’s not what this is at all, don’t you get it?! Plus, I _told_ you, I agreed to be – he’s, _Lucifer_ is-”

“They’re being _exclusive_ per contract is what Stiles is saying, Scott. Didn’t we cover that already? They’re not high school sweethearts with a really creepy twist. Stiles is more like a partner in a business transaction. With... a really creepy twist,” Lydia says with a little sigh. She was kneading her neck with her right hand, left clutching an empty cup. Her stilettoes were resting in a pile on the ground next to her purse. It takes a lot to get Lydia out of her shoes. She’s kneeling on a folding chair with only her thin pantyhose separating the skin of her legs from the metal of the chair. Let’s just say, they’ve been here for a while.

“More coffee, anyone?” Deaton says, his palm resting on the handle of a white coffee pot on the counter next to a set of knives and scissors. They’re in the animal clinic but rather than a dog or cat or rabbit, Scott and Liam are sitting on the examination table, feet dangling through the air, and both shake their heads at Deaton, and so do Lydia, Kira, Mason.

And Stiles.

“Derek?”

Deaton turns around to face the man who’s resting in a chair next to the door and who has been keeping out of the conversation so far.

In fact, he hasn’t said a word for more than two hours now nor has Stiles seen him move even once and just when he thinks that Derek must be asleep the man gives Deaton a curt shake of the head.

“So what – do you really expect us to stand by and watch Lucifer spread his saliva all over your face?” This is Scott offering yet another variation of _I can’t allow Lucifer to hurt Stiles_. Stiles takes a deep breath and waits for the second part and Scott of course doesn’t disappoint.

“I just can’t believe you did that... what on earth were you thinking? You can’t make decisions like that without considering us.”

Stiles is rubbing his eyes with both hands – he has been doing that so much that the skin around them looks slightly red and sore.

“I think what Stiles was thinking of most of all is the pack, Scott,” Kira says, softly. “And it gives us a real chance. We just have to come up with a plan. Right?”

“He’s the fucking _devil_ ,” Mason says now and he can’t really get his voice to not betray how much that terrifies and fascinates him, “you can’t outsmart the devil. Haven’t you heard any of the stories of people trying to do exactly that? No one ever does it without paying a big price.”

“Those are just folk tales,” Scott says but then adds with a look at Deaton, “I know, I know... there’s some truth to them and all but still, come on. There’s gotta be something. Derek – you sure you can’t somehow get rid of him?”

Derek lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t respond.

“And, you know, use your force like before?”

“Force?” Lydia snorts. “I’m tired and my eyes hurt and I’ve had way too much coffee and if you start making _Star Wars_ metaphors now, Scott, I swear, I’m gonna murder you.”

“The only reason I’m even telling you this is because I want you all to stand back,” Stiles interjects before Scott can bring forth any defense of _Star Wars_ metaphors. He feels like he’s been repeating that for hours now and it’s been like talking to a fucking brick wall.

What Scott doesn’t get is this.

It’s not Stiles saying, _Please, don’t interfere, I don’t want you to get hurt_ and then Scott goes ahead and interferes and he does get hurt and so does Stiles but in the end, because Scott was willing to sacrifice himself for his best friend, everything will be alright. Because that’s how the world is supposed to work.

Because in an ideal world, it’s the good will that counts.

Or like one of those movies, when someone says, _Oh, don’t you dare do this!_ , and then that person, right? He or she goes ahead and does it anyway. And because of that all kinds of stuff happen and it’s really cool and in the end everyone’s like, _Gosh, it was so stupid but I’m really glad you did it_.

Yes?

But this is not one of _those_ stories.

Then Stiles’ phone goes _ping_ and he’s almost glad about it – until he unlocks it and has a look at the screen because there, bobbing around the icons, is the bubble of a vintage photograph of children playing catch on a street in the ‘50s. It’s Theo’s Whatsapp icon. Stiles opens the conversation with trembling fingers.

“Theo?,” Scott says and Stiles nods.

“He says he’s outside.”

Stiles bends down to grab his backpack.

“You can’t be serious. No way, dude. You’re fucking kidding me. You’re _not_ going out there.”

Scott jumps on his feet, determined expression on his face, seeming ready to wrestle Stiles to the ground if necessary.

“I have to, Scott,” Stiles says wearily. “It won’t be so bad. I’ve known him for a long time, I – I’ve literally grown up with him so...”

“You can’t be serious. You’re _not_ going,” Scott growls, eyes flashing red but Stiles isn’t impressed. “You’d rather I’m dead? Or worse than dead?”

“Well, no, of course not but – there just has to be a solution...”

Scott lets his eyes glide over every single member of his pack, silently urging them to help him. Kira who got up from her chair puts her hand on his shoulder. “Scott, I think we’ll have to let him go for now. We don’t have a solution and Theo’s right outside. Stiles is not _allowed_ to say no. And we – we can’t lose him.”

She flicks her eyes over to Stiles who looks tired and lost and gives him a forced smile.

“Be careful, Stiles. Ok? All – all will be well. I’m sure. Trust us. We’ll get Malia back and we’ll come up with a plan, a really good one.”

The others mutter their agreement.

Stiles nods, turns around and walks out, just like that.

When he passes Derek their eyes meet and Stiles walks a little faster.

 

 

 

The night was dark and silent, the sky empty, cloudless, oddly starless.

Empty.

Theo’s sports car was parked out on the street. Stiles could see him in the driver’s seat and he forced himself to nevertheless keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He desperately wanted to be back with the others but Kira was right.

Stiles wasn’t looking ahead at scarring and burning and flaying. He was just looking ahead at an evening with Theo.

It was gonna be alright.


	18. KIRA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Steo - Kira - Steo - St..... urk? (semi-Sterek? Sterek for sadists? nice-try-but-not-really-Sterek?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got sort of bored with things and thought – hey, why not twist the story a little. Yeah. That’s the result of that. Hope it’s not too weird. I just needed to think of a way to gives Scott’s pack more agency and, paradoxically, I think it might just work like this. Ha, I guess we’ll see.

Stiles kept his eyes glued to the trees outside the window.

He was in Theo’s car again and they were probably headed towards Malia’s. Ah, the déjà-vu. 

But this wasn’t the same car he’d been in before? Stiles couldn’t remember.

And it didn't really matter anyway. He was here and there wasn't anything he could change about that.

And yet, he wasn’t – uncomfortable. It was nice and warm in the car. Stiles’ right elbow was propped against the car door, hand dangling in the air, his left palm was resting on the leather seat next to his leg. Looking a little stiff there, yes, a little tense. But who could blame him.

Right?

For all he knew they could be driving down the road to insanity.

He knew that Theo kept throwing him glances, smiling softly now and then as if remembering a funny scene from a movie. Stop fucking staring at me like that is what Stiles wanted to say. But what would be the point in doing that?

He was still trying to get over Scott’s anger at what he’d done, at the way Stiles had basically handed himself over to Theo, and the looks his pack had given him. Shock and worry.

Disappointment.

Only Derek, as always, had been different. That guy hadn’t even blinked. Maybe it was because Derek was the one Stiles was least close with. Also, Derek was always pretty rational about these things.

Like – there’s monsters, let’s kill them. There’s a problem, let’s solve it.

There’s lasagna on the table, let’s eat it.

Stiles made a pact with the devil, let’s accept it.

Not so suprising, yes?

Oh, it’s just Stiles. Again.

Stiles got himself into trouble again.

No, that was helpful. Really, Stiles wasn’t implying that he’d wanted Derek to react differently. Derek had listened in silence and then he’d been the only one who’d had the courtesy to simply accept what Stiles was saying, what he was asking for.

No, that was good.

Fucking awesome.

“So... you told them, hm?”

“What?”

Stiles cleared his throat, said again, “What?”

Theo was staring ahead into the darkness, steering his car through silent streets.

“Your _pack_ ,” he said, lips curling around the second word. Mockingly?

Stiles couldn’t tell.

“Yeah. I told them – to stay out of... _this_.”

Whatever the hell this was.

“And they didn’t take it well. Am I right?”

Theo shifted into third gear.

When Stiles didn’t say anything, he added, “Well, I’m not gonna hurt them, if that’s what you’re thinking. I promised. Remember?”

He turned his head to look at Stiles for a second, then flicked his eyes back to the road.

“And,” he shook his head a little, a half-smile, half-frown spreading over his handsome face as if wanting to say, _Honey, you know I like your friends BUT..._

As if the whole situation couldn’t grow any more bizarre.

“They’re your pack. Scott, and Liam, and Kira, and all of them but it doesn’t hurt to become your own person, you know.”

Stiles stared defiantly out the window.

“Especially Derek. Scott isn’t aware of it but that dude’s a loose cannon. I mean... you’ll never know with omicrons.”

Omi-...what?

What’s an omatron?

Don’t listen to him. He’s just rambling because that’s what normal people do.

It’s all part of the game.

“You’re not even gonna ask?”

Maybe that’s how he tried to get Stiles to talk to him. Theo used to hate it when Stiles ignored him no matter what he did. It was the best, and only, way to punish him. Of course, the price he’d pay for it... was never really worth it.

But since torture was off the fucking table Stiles pressed his lips together and continued looking out the window.

“Ok. Suit yourself.”

They were driving in silence for a while and Stiles kept replaying the same lines in his head over and over again.

Do not let him into your head.

Do NOT let him into your head.

Do not let him into YOUR head.

Do not let him into your HEAD.

If he didn’t let Theo provoke him he should be on the safe side for now.

It had always been his end game, Theo’s. Manipulation. After getting sick of the lighters and scissors and ropes he’d try to mess with Stiles’ brain.

For instance. Once Theo had tried to make him believe that his parents were in on a conspiracy with Mrs. Landon, his 4th grade English teacher who Theo had claimed was secretly leading a witch coven. In reality, she’d only hated Stiles because he’d been _that kid_. There’s one or two of those in every classroom. The hyperactive troublemaker, talented, somehow, but, alas, an underachiever, she’d seen it a hundred, oh, what am I saying, a _thousand_ times, and, I’m _sorry_ to tell you Mrs. Stilinski, _so_ sorry, but I’m afraid he’ll _never_ amount to _anything_ at all.

Long story short, even though Stiles had never really bought Theo’s lies they’d ended up putting a flattened rabbit into her briefcase when she wasn’t looking, mangled ears sticking out from under the fake leather lid. Roadkill Theo had, to Stiles’ disgust and horror, scooped up from the asphalt on Maple Street and stuffed into his gym bag.

Stiles could clearly see it in front of his eyes now, that stupid bag. It had been dark blue with red and yellow race cars on it and the rabbit had left behind a permanent brown stain on the fabric, so they’d had to throw it out after their prank. Little Theo’s smile had been mischievous. And, squatting under the teacher’s desk – front row seats, you see – and waiting for the old hag to discover the rabbit, scream and faint, so they could jump over her limp body and rush outside before anyone could catch them, Stiles had had to guiltily admit to himself that playing pranks on much hated teachers was a lot better than rolling around in pain in the mud behind the old Beacon Hills power plant, clutching his bleeding hand or singed wrist and developing a sepsis that Theo would burn out of his body a day later with more fire.

Stiles was startled out of his thoughts when the car stopped. They were in a McDonald’s parking lot. It was almost empty except for two cars at the other end, a black Volvo and a dirty white pickup.

Theo turned the key in the ignition so the heat wouldn’t go out.

Stiles kept staring out the window, demonstratively ignoring that Theo had unfastened his seat belt and turned to face him. Stiles didn’t have to look at him to know that one of his smiles was playing around his lips.

Then he leaned over the gear shift and Stiles, without thinking, instantly receded, drawing his upper body as far back as he could to get out of the way of Theo’s face. The back of his head hit the window, Stiles said _‘Ouch!’_ and Theo snickered.

“Oh, come on, Stiles... really?”

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to relax but he still flinched when Theo’s hand slid around his neck. Theo pulled his head towards him and Stiles closed his eyes.

The brush of Theo’s soft lips against his sent shivers down his spine.

Just hold your head still. Get used to it.

Admit that this is so much better than pain.

Theo’s tongue slipped into his mouth and Stiles smelled his aftershave and felt the firm grip of Theo’s hand in his neck. A second hand grabbed Stiles’ right upper arm. Apparently, he was still trying to pull back without really being aware of it but Theo’s hands held him in place now and Stiles fought back the urge to slap him.

When Theo’s lips glided down to the curve of his neck Stiles let out a gasp. A new, different kind of shudder ran down his back and into his crotch and in order to make Theo stop and distract himself from the feeling that was building in his stomach all of a sudden, he said, “I – I’m not -  _into_ you, Theo. You know that.”

Stiles could feel Theo inhale, breath cooling his skin, as if he tried to take in as much of Stiles’ scent as possible.

“Is it because you haven't been with a man before? Are you uncomfortable with my male body?”

He sucked on Stiles’ skin and Stiles clutched at the seats with trembling fingers to stop himself from throwing open the car door and stumbling out into the night. He felt his dick slowly harden.

And what the fuck was he supposed to do? How to get away from this?

“I’d hate to abandon this body but I could make changes to it, if you want... Do you want me to become a girl, Stiles?”

“Th- that’s not what I m-mean... _fuck_.”

It wasn’t really about Theo being a boy or a girl, even though, admittedly, Stiles _did_ prefer girls.

Ok, if you _must_ know, there  _was_ this _one_ time when Stiles had developed a huge crush for a guy, so you could probably say, he wouldn’t particularly _mind_ kissing a _boy_ , _if_ he happened to fall in love with one. But this wasn’t about gender.

It was more about the king of hell leaving a fucking hickey on his neck.

“P-please stop, Theo, ok? Only for – just, please, give me a – a minute...”

When Theo reappeared there was a wide grin on his face.

“So hormonal... it’s really easy to press your buttons, you know that, Stiles?”

“Only because I let you,” Stiles said, panting. And why the fuck was he panting?!

“And how’s that working out for you?”

 “I’m fucking disgusted, you son of a bitch,” Stiles spit out. His limbs felt like rubber and there was this ridiculous mixture of desperation and horniness rolling around in his stomach.

Still, better than the pain.

Yes, Stiles was preferring ashamed, uncomfortable and disgusted to the scissors, the lighter and the needles.

“What are you looking at,” Stiles snapped because, well. Theo was at it again, staring at Stiles to unsettle him. However, rather than dive straight ahead into one of his little mind games, he shrugged and said, “You hungry?”

“Huh?”

“Ts.” Theo let out a soft chuckle.

“God, you’re a catastrophe, Stiles. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ok, then I’ll spell it out to you. We’re in a McDonald’s parking lot. You love McDonald’s – ah, don’t deny it. I know you do. Since you’re also hungry... can you add it up now or do you want to embarrass yourself further?”

Pause.

Stiles tried to calm down. God, he wanted punch Theo so, so fucking badly and the mere fact that he could still actually taste him in his mouth only made the urge stronger.

“Come on.” Theo motioned with his head for Stiles to follow him.

He got out of the car and Stiles took a deep breath.

Ok, that particular episode was apparently over.

So far so good.

He opened the door, let the soles of his sneakers touch the asphalt and climbed out of the car. Theo was already walking in the direction of the brightly lit building, then stopped and threw a glimpse back over his shoulder.

“You coming?”

Stiles threw the car door shut. He felt odd for a second when the blood rushed back into his feet. But he was alright. He straightened his shoulders and began trudging after Theo.

And maybe, yeah.

Maybe, being the devil and all, Theo didn’t really think about the whole range of things he could do to Stiles now. Stiles for his part certainly didn’t want to.

“A Big Mac and chicken nuggets,” he muttered to himself to drown out every other thought.

And fries.

Lots of fries.

 

 

 

“No, I’m _not_ turning around. Lydia, stop – _Lydia_ , listen to – no, I already _told_ you.” Scott was clutching a cellphone to his ear but he looked very tempted to just throw it out the car window. Luckily, the windows on Stiles’ Jeep wouldn’t open anymore so. They were on the safe side here.

Kira kept throwing her boyfriend worried glances from the passenger’s seat. They were speeding down Main Street and not only was Scott going way too fast but he was so angry that he was running the risk of ripping the steering wheel clean out of Stiles’ beloved Jeep.

“Scott...,” Kira started softly, “Honey, calm down.”

“I _am_ calm,” Scott said through grit teeth and Kira thought she saw his eyes flash red.

Oh boy.

“No, I’m fucking calm and _fucking_ perfect, _everything’s_ just fucking perfect.”

Kira caught the smartphone before Scott could throw it over his shoulder onto the backseat.

“Lydia? Hey... er, this is Kira? Y-yeah, I know you already knew that. Er... yeah. Yeah, I get it. No, totally. Hey, listen. I call you back, ok?”

She pressed a button on the cellphone and then kept staring at with a worried expression, as if she was waiting for Lydia to reach through the display and strangle her.

“Er... Lydia thinks this a bad idea.”

“Oh _really_. Yeah, I caught as much. Well sucks to be her ‘cause _I’m_ the fucking alpha.”

“Please stop cursing?,” Kira said, her voice an almost inaudible whisper. She hated seeing Scott like that. He was gentle and warmhearted and this just wasn’t like him at all. Then again, protecting his friend no matter what was very much like him so she should probably relax and deal with it.

“Where are we going,” she finally managed to say.

“Malia.”

Kira nodded. She had already guessed as much.

“What if Theo is there? What if he took Stiles to Malia's?”

“I’m counting on it. I intend to have a word with him.”

“I doubt your alpha instincts can help us with this. Really, Scott, this – this is not the right time to mark your territory, we have to be very careful.”

Oh, no. She shouldn’t have said that. She should _not_ have said that. It needed to be said but Scott probably hated her now.

“S-sorry but... I – I think you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Theo can’t kill me, right? He’s bound by the contract he himself drew up. Hypothetically, I could do to him whatever I want and soon as he throws even one punch at me BAM!!”

Kira jumped in her seat.

“B-bam?”

“BAM, hell opens up, sucks this dickhead back in and – peace on earth.”

When he threw a glance at Kira’s shocked expression, he added, “Well, not exactly peace but... Beacon Hills will be a Theo-free zone again.”

His expression softened.

“Sounds reasonable enough to you?”

Kira frowned but it was too late anyway. Scott was already drawing up to the house. As soon as he’d turned the engine off, Kira unfastened her seat belt, pushed the door open and jumped out of the Jeep. The house was lying in darkness except for what Kira knew was the kitchen window. A dark and motionless shape was watching them from behind the net curtains. Kira could discern Malia’s wild curls that were throwing gigantic shadows onto the gravel in front of her feet.

“Creepy,” she muttered but Scott was already at the front door. She didn’t have to see it to know that he was half-wolfed out.

“Malia? It’s – Scott and Kira! Are you there?,” Kira yelled, voice shaky.

She stepped up to Scott, reached around his back and pulled at the screen door.

“She knows we’re here anyway,” she whispered in response to Scott’s silent glare, “and she knows we know she knows. You, er, know?”

And indeed, as soon as they’d let themselves into the house, Malia appeared in the door to their left, eyes glowing blue through the darkness of the living room.

For about a second Kira was dead certain that the two would throw themselves at each other and she’d be forced to watch a fight to the death, the love of her life against her best friend in the world. She would stand over their mangled bodies, holding Malia’s bloody hand in her left and Scott’s shredded hand in her right and the only thing left would be to cry desperately. And she would be sitting there for hours and hours, re-connecting them in death. And-

“Scott,” Malia let out a breath, “I’m so glad you’re here!”

Kira blinked.

But hey, to be fair, that might as well have gone down any other way. Better be prepared for everything. And was she being pestered by intrusive thoughts about worst case scenarios from which she emerged the grief-stricken heroine?

Maybe.

But the way Malia ducked down a little now – she might as well be hiding something and maybe it wasn’t all in Kira’s head. She didn’t have wolf instincts like Scott, all she knew was that last time they checked, Malia was in on a game with Theo, so who knew.

Malia lifted her right arm and – please, don’t try to kill him, please don’t do that, was all Kira could think but then Malia walked into Scott’s outstretched arms and they hugged like old buddies.

Kira let out a sigh of relief.

All was good.

For now.

“Scott, I’m so sorry, I just-”

“I know,” Scott cut her short. “It’s alright.”

“I still can’t leave here,” Malia added, her face full of worry. “He’s my brother.”

“...where is he?”

“They’re out to grab dinner. Er... Theo and – and Stiles. I – they sort of made up, I think I finally got through to him. To Theo.”

Scott was holding Malia’s hands in his own. The touch of her alpha seemed to soothe her because Kira could see her shoulders relax a little.

“What did you tell him?”

“Only that there’s more to being human than he thinks there is. It’s what I had to learn, too. When I shifted back for good, you know. After I-”

“Yeah,” Scott said. So she didn’t have to spell it out.

“And that he should give it a try because he was so desperate, you know, living like that in a teenager’s body, it’s not enough for him. He says he – he says it makes him feel – _dead_.”

Scott nodded and Kira didn’t dare move. This was too good to be true. They would take Malia back with them, she’d join the pack again.

Things would finally be like before.

“You talked him into the pact?”

Malia hesitated and Kira thought she saw a frown appear on her face.

“Me? No. It’s not like that at all, Scott.”

“Then explain it to us – you can do it on the way back. We’re meeting at my place in thirty and we could really use your help.”

Kira couldn’t help but admire Scott’s optimism. As if Malia would leave Theo behind, the boy she so much wanted to believe to be her-

“...brother. He’s my brother,” Malia was repeating now and Kira nodded. She’d expected as much.

“He’s not _really_ your brother. It’s just,” and Scott voice was very gentle all of a sudden, “his body, Malia. Ok? Your brother is just not – not there anymore.”

Malia pulled her hands back, more in agitation than anger. She was shaking her head vividly and Kira was watching with mixed feelings. Scott obviously just blew it.

“No, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Scott, you and the others, he _really_ is there, Theo, he _really and truly_ still is. He’s been in there for _years_.”

“But Stiles,” Scott started but Malia’s voice cut through his sentence harshly, “I know what Stiles thinks but he’s wrong. Scott, he’s just _wrong_. The- _Lucifer_ explained it to me. Please, you _have to_ believe me. He’s made the deal to protect Stiles.”

“Pro-,” Scott started, then took a step back, considering Malia.

As if he could suddenly see her clearly.

“Lucifer made the pact to _protect_ Stiles?” he said slowly and Kira thought he sounded a lot like, _So you say a ghost stole your pudding?_

Malia was shaking her head again, curls bobbing to the left and right and left and right in the dark living room.

“ _Theo_. Theo made a pact to protect Stiles, his best friend. Theo made a pact with Lucifer when he was still only a boy.”

Scott snorted and Kira’s right hand curled around her left wrist as if she needed to hold on to something, thinking, Oh, don’t _laugh_ , Scott, _don’t_. She’s trusting you and is opening up to you and you’re destroying everything.

And indeed, when Malia spoke next she sounded a lot more – aloof.

“Yes, Scott. He made a pact to protect him from the omicrons that Lucifer’s archenemy, Phenuel, was creating.”

“What?”

Kira couldn’t see his face but from the way Scott tilted his head to the right now, she knew that he must look really confused. The gesture was so like Scott – sitting behind him in math, Kira could pinpoint any shade of confusion, from puzzled to bewildered to _What kind of magic is this?!_ But it’s not like she was always watching him. Because she clearly wasn’t, that’s ridiculous.

“What on earth are you even talking about?”

“ _Omicrons_ , Scott.”

“Don’t just repeat that word, and what the hell is that even supposed to-” He stopped himself mid-sentence and then added, a lot more composed, “You know what? I think he already got into your head. Lucifer. _And_ Theo. Because they’re clearly one and the same person that is playing with your emotions for your dead brother. And they – he – _whatever_ – is driving you _nuts_. You buy all the bullshit he’s telling you and you know how I know he’s telling bullshit? He’s the freakin’ _devil_. It’s what he does.”

Malia narrowed her eyes and Kira heard a low growl escape her throat, and, God, she knew it, she _knew_ it, they _were_ gonna fight to the death and then because Melissa McCall and Mr. Tate would be devastated it would be Kira’s task to plan the funerals and she loved them both so much, how could she possibly be at two different places at the same time because, obviously, two former friends who tragically died battling each other wouldn’t want to share a funeral and how was she even supposed to-

“I need help,” Kira muttered over her own thoughts and both Scott and Malia looked over to her in surprise.

“What? Nothing,” she quickly added, cheeks reddening. “I’m good, you continue. Talking.”

Malia shot her one of those looks so familiar to her, like _Kira, why are you so fucking weird?_ , and Kira’s frown dissolved into a nervous little smile. At least her best friend was still herself.

That was good.

Right?

 

 

Half an hour later Stiles was shuffling across the parking lot again, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. Well, that had been – ok.

Theo could be surprisingly pleasant if he wanted to but Stiles wouldn’t forget the past just like that. He knew Theo so goddamn well he couldn’t even relax around, say, asleep Theo or almost beaten to death Theo, probably not even around beheaded Theo. He was predictably unpredictable that way. You’d never know when his mood would change again. Theo would wake up in the middle of the night during one of those sleepovers little Stiles had dreaded so much but, somehow, had never been able to prevent, and be all awake and bored all of a sudden. _I’m bored_ – Stiles had soon learned to live in constant fear of these words.

However, Stiles had realized that Theo’s mood swings seemed to have become considerably less. After all, he wasn’t the devil living inside a little boy’s body anymore – he was the devil living inside a teenager’s body and it was really hard for him to image Theo throwing a tantrum now. Stiles wasn’t sure if he preferred this Theo to the one he’d known when he was ten years old because right now, Theo was holding the car door open for Stiles, motioning for him to climb into the back seat.

Not the passenger seat.

The back seat.

Oh, perfect.

Stiles’ heart started pounding in his chest almost instantly. He hesitated, looked at Theo with a blank stare but when Theo raised his eyebrows, Stiles swallowed whatever he’d meant to say or ask and just got in the car.

Better than pain, Stiles was thinking. He was certain now that this was a different car because Theo's Mercedes hadn't had a back seat. There was this little voice in his head telling him that Theo got this new, slightly larger car exclusively for what was to follow.

“I’m glad you’re looking on the bright side,” Theo said and his voice was muffled by the fabric of Stiles' sweater. Was he actually trying to cuddle with him? By now, Stiles was really wondering just how high this night would score on his _what-the-fuck-_ scale.

“Wh-what?”

“You just said, ‘Better than pain,’ and, I believe, you might be right... for now.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, turned his head away from Theo and stared out through the tinted windows. Theo’s lips were leaving a wet trail on his neck and in order to distract him from the way the feeling was making his skin tingle Stiles tried to discern what was outside the window. Parking lot half-lit up by the huge McDonald’s M, a dark car just pulling out of it and onto Straitwood Avenue but Stiles couldn’t tell whether it was black or blue or – dark silver?

There were three holes in the asphalt from what he could see from here and... yes, grass and shrubbery seaming the parking lot. Like every other McDonald’s parking lot.

There’s wasn’t a speck on the car windows, Theo must have had it cleaned very recently. Or bought it recently. In any case, the interior smelled new, like plastic and leather and, because it was a sports car, there was hardly enough room for Stiles’ feet and the seats looked expensive and were hard and uncomfortable.

At least – yeah, no way in hell that anyone could stretch out here, let alone Stiles who was rather tall.

Good, that was good.

Unless...

Unless Theo decided to take him somewhere.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” Theo whispered. He lifted his head to look Stiles in the eyes and Stiles was glad about it. His neck felt wet and hot and sort of sore and even more sensitive than when Theo had started working on it. It was almost like Stiles could feel every new lick of his tongue more distinctly than the one before and he’d very, very much preferred if Theo just cut it out altogether.

“Not bad considering that I’ve lived through all the ages of mankind without gathering any personal experience, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice all raspy and broken. “How come? The sudden change of heart...?”

Keep him talking.

Just – try and distract him.

It’s all you got.

“It’s probably got to do with this body,” Theo stated matter-of-factly and shrugged and leaned back a little, away from Stiles and Stiles felt like he could breathe more freely all of a sudden.

“I’ve been wondering about that but, since I’m sort of stuck in time and place here, I can’t really do a study of human emotion...”

“Can’t travel through time and look into people’s brains anymore, mh? Must suck to be you.”

Theo ignored the sarcasm and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Stiles. You know very well I can’t time-slip like this. I’d have to leave this body first.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Ts. Different body, different sensations. I thought you would have understood as much by now? Leaving Theo Raeken behind, that means leaving all his emotions behind as well. And why would I want that. You know... right now, I enjoy _being an individual_...” From the sound of Theo’s voice, Stiles could tell that he was grimacing. Not that he was surprised though. Lucifer’s simultaneous disgust with, and fascination for, man-made categories was almost legendary.

“Plus, this body is both a born wolf _and_ a born coyote, you see... and, I must say, I’m liking its sensitivity for scent and fixation on _necks_...”

Theo lifted his hand and let his index and middle fingers rest in the curve of Stiles’ neck for a second, then he started tracing out the marks his lips must have left there. Eventually, he leaned forward again and replaced his hand with his mouth. Once more Stiles couldn’t do anything but sit there and bear Theo’s tongue licking at his skin.

No, he would certainly not get used to that anytime soon.

"Mh. Glad you like it.” Stiles didn’t know what else to respond. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation what with him trying his hardest not to get aroused under the touch of Theo’s lips. A little, yeah, that was fine but the fact that his dick was half-hard again was absolutely fucking unacceptable. That made two times in a row in one night. He wondered whether Theo was even aware of what he was doing there.

And when on earth was this ever going to stop.

Still. He shouldn’t think that, right?

Come on, Stiles, don’t be ungrateful.

Haven’t you wished for Theo finding another pastime, anything, anything at all, please, God, I’ll do anything?

“Ha.” Theo chuckled softly, thoughts apparently still circling around the meaning of human life. “It used to bore me, that talk about longing and desire and addiction. I guess that was foolish of me. I understand a little better now. Even the most evolved creature can yet learn, you see...”

“You’re so deep and humble, I want to vomit.”

“Used to be a time when I would have broken your wrist for a snide comment like that...”

Stiles who was still staring straight ahead through the front window felt Theo’s hands crawl over his body – right one cupping his neck and left hand clasping Stiles’ left wrist and squeezing it.

Softly, at first, and then gradually exerting more and more pressure on it.

“Slowly, I’d have both crushed and twisted it so it would crack in three different places. Remember?”

Oh, man, did he remember it.

Not long and Theo’s grip would actually do damage and Stiles started sweating.

“But, as per our agreement, I can’t do that now. I physically can’t... do you feel it?”

And Stiles felt it.

It was like heat bubbling to the surface of his skin, like a pull that, he could sense, would become incredibly powerful in a few moments should Theo continue, a foreign energy that was sleeping inside of him and that was causing a soft purple glow to radiate from every part of his body now like a light flashing danger and admonishing Theo to stop. It wasn’t painful or even uncomfortable. It was just the most peculiar feeling ever and yes, it surpassed anything else Theo had caused Stiles to feel that night. On a weirdness scale of ten, a nine, at least.

Theo released his hand and the warmth inside of him ebbed away. Stiles started missing it almost immediately. For a moment there, it had made him feel almost powerful.

“See? Devil proof... right now our contract _could_ hypothetically be dissolved, you know, when its power is acting up because I’m about to break it and then you’d have to say ‘I release you’ or ‘I acquit you’ or something along those lines in order to let me hurt you. But like this... you’re safe. With our pact, I relinquished all my power, Stiles. And doesn’t that make you proud? That I’d deem you worthy ? Only happens once in a millennium, you know... that someone would be born whose body could contain the forces involved in a deal like that.”

Stiles was silent for a moment. Then, when the meaning dawned on him, “W-wait. Do you mean my death was actually one of the possible outcomes of this whole thing? Theo?”

Theo sighed.

“Nah.”

Stiles suddenly felt the weight of Theo’s head on his shoulder and concluded that he was done with the deep shit talk about feelings and memories and body travel.

So was that how their weekends would go down from now on? Stiles being picked up, then forced to live through a number of make-out sessions and then, practically covered in the devil’s saliva, hop out of the fancy car to grab a burger and fries at McDonald’s.

Hickeys, fries, surreal demonstration of supernatural power, more hickeys.

Insane really was the only word apt to describe the whole night.

Fucking insane.

Still, a much better adjective than terrifying and nightmarish.

Theo’s mouth found his in the darkness and Stiles, once again, refused to respond but just sat there, stiff and immobile like a fucking rock, and let Theo nibble at his lips and nudge his tongue and grab his hands.

Stiles was pretty sure that they looked like two seven-year-olds who were trying to copy grown-ups but didn’t know what the hell they were doing there or what it all meant. He felt the urge to scream growing stronger and stronger by the minute.

Then Theo suddenly seemed to have had enough. He drew his head back abruptly and pushed the car door open. It took Stiles a few moments to recollect himself and realize that Theo was already sitting in the driver’s seat, looking back at him and smirking and shaking his head like _Stiles, you’re such a mess_. Stiles started moving, slowly, first his feet and fingers and then, finally he pulled his whole body up from the back seat and stumbled out into the cold night.

“I’ll take you home,” Theo said when Stiles had settled on the passenger seat again.

He started the engine.

Stiles tried to fasten his seat belt with shaky fingers. God. If he had to describe what he was feeling right now he’d probably be forced to  _make up_ words. There was just no way – he’d never thought – no, he absolutely couldn’t say. From the moment he’d known that Theo was back, he’d been preparing for all sorts of possible outcomes – but _this_? He could never have foreseen this.

And the thing was that he didn’t even know if that was good or an innovative form of terrible. He wasn’t comfortable at all with Theo all over him, or even next to him in the driver's seat, but then he wasn’t scared to death either.

What Theo did to him just made him feel so very strange.

“Want me to turn on the radio?”

“Mh,” Stiles said and jerked his head up and down to signal agreement and Theo pressed a button somewhere, must have at least, even though Stiles hadn’t seen him do it because soon the car was full of sound.

 _When I was young, it was more important, pain more painful, the laughter much louder_ , Eric Burdon was singing and Stiles didn’t even wonder what version of the song this was, the way he would normally do, 1967, 1969, 1972.

1985?

He listened without thinking about anything, words just passing through his brain like billboards in front of a blind person.

Perfect and loud and devoid of meaning.

_My faith was so much stronger then._

I believed in fellow men.

And I was so much older then.

When I was young.

 

So very, very strange.

 

When Stiles was alone again an hour and a half later he still couldn’t wrap his head around the new Theo no matter how hard he tried. He was standing in the middle of his room, staring at the Mets poster on the wall above his bed but not really seeing anything. His thoughts kept going in circles, coming to the exact same conclusion again and again and again. To Stiles’ mind, none of the explanations his pack had come up with that afternoon and none of the answers Theo had offered later, for the sudden change in behavior and his unheard of interest in torture free relationships, had made any sense at all.

Then again, what Theo had been doing to him all evening really was just another kind of torture and, oddly enough, that thought was a relief to Stiles. Because he felt like that was the Theo he knew and who Stiles had developed a bunch of coping mechanisms to deal with. Like this, he could at least relax a little and not be scared shitless about the moment Theo would finally uncover the _real_ plan, the one about murdering everyone dear to Stiles and taking him down below.

There was a knock on his window and Stiles jumped. He spun around, half expecting to see Theo lurking outside of his bedroom window, Theo who came by to tell him that it had all been a big fat hoax, the pact and the force Stiles had felt, even the purple glow and everything, and that he was here to torture him to death and, before that, have him praise Theo for his elaborate plan to make his end game so interesting.

Instead, all he saw was Derek whose face was so pale it was almost glowing in the darkness outside. Stiles walked over and unlatched the window and pushed it open for Derek to climb inside.

Derek did so without even so much as a  _hello, how are you_. He pulled the window down, re-latched it then turned to face Stiles.

Still, no words were being exchanged, no greeting or apology or explanation for barging in so late. Stiles remained silent because he was fucking exhausted from the sheer amount of stress that being around Theo gave to him and Derek...

Well.

He was raking his eyes up and down Stiles’ body now and Stiles could just fucking tell what he was thinking from the way Derek was looking at him with the edges of his mouth slowly turning downwards, inhaling what must be Theo’s scent all over Stiles.

And not just scent.

Theo’s spit that Stiles could still almost feel sticking to his lips and throat and chest and – and _neck_.

And, sure as hell, that’s what Derek’s eyes latched onto now, the naked spot between Stiles’ left ear and the neckline of his dark blue t-shirt. Stiles had had the presence of mind to make a big fuss about how his throat was hurting as soon as he’d set foot into the living room and how he would have to heat up a cherry pit pillow for himself like immediately, before he was out of his jacket even and then slam it into his neck. It had still been way to hot of course and Stiles had, with watering eyes, smiled through the burning sensation on his neck and throat that felt fucking raw without him pressing something singing hot against them but his dad hadn’t noticed, had only frowned and offered to make tea and when they’d sat down to watch the game, Stiles had started feeling comfortable again in his own skin, finally.

The point here was that it was really hard for a guy to hide what must be about ten huge, dark red and purple hickeys. Stiles had avoided examining the mess in the bathroom mirror but that’s what it felt like.

At least, that’s what the things Theo had been doing to him had felt like.

And he had no long hair to cover them up, nor the excuse of wearing a fashionable scarf that went with his dress, or his shoes, or his purse or whatever.

So, a moron would know at first sight that Stiles had been sucking face with Theo and, what’s more, it wasn’t like Theo had been careful or subtle or anything. Stiles probably looked like he’d been attacked by a whole bunch of horny teenage girls, like the ones that would sometimes follow Derek around when he was out running errands.

Derek was still staring at the spot, face perfectly unreadable and Stiles was blushing wildly. He almost wished he was back in Theo’s dark car. Somehow, inexplicably, he preferred Theo’s wet tongue to _this_.

Standing in the middle of his brightly lit bedroom with the whole evening spread out for Derek Hale to judge.

Stiles felt so fucking ashamed of himself all of a sudden that he wanted to cry.

Standing there and having Derek scrutinize him wordlessly, he struggled to force the feeling bubbling up in his throat back down again. He looked Derek dead in die eyes in the attempt to not appear vulnerable but defiant, like _Yeah, that’s what I did, so what?!_

As if he could hear Stiles’ thoughts, Derek smirked.

“How was your... _date_?,” he said matter-of-factly and Stiles made a face like Derek just slapped him.

Shock at the unfairness of it all.

As if he’d had a choice.

The feeling of sheer misery in his stomach made way to something else entirely.

While on the sofa with his dad he'd managed to imagine himself a victim, but, you know, a strong one, one that would pull through it all, emerge cleansed at the end, a little broken maybe but stronger, so much stronger.

The final girl in a slasher movie, the one who survived all the horror and carnage, winding up baptized with blood and gore and pain, both wiser and purer than before.

Now, Derek was giving him the feeling that he was somehow dirty. That he’d betrayed his pack even though that’s not how it fucking was.

At all.

“It wasn’t a date,” Stiles said and, when Derek raised his eyebrows, he hissed, “you fucking well know that it wasn’t!”

He tried to calm down, to resist the urge to start yelling at Derek because his dad was asleep in the room across the hall but he was so angry all of a sudden, he didn’t even really know why. Maybe all the stress and repressed feelings of being cornered and abused and harassed by Theo finally found their way to the surface and just latched on to the next person they could find, completely arbitrarily.

Or, maybe, it was something else.

Whatever it was, Stiles was done for the day, he was done just having to take all the crap people shoved his way, Theo fucking using him like that and now this, now Derek, whose only apparent reason for being here was to mock him and tear him apart on the inside a little more.

He was fucking done.

“If there’s nothing else you have to say, leave. I can’t take any of your shit now,” Stiles said and he knew his voice was shaking with anger but his eyes were staring at Derek coldly. Yeah, these feelings might be out of control, mis-placed, and maybe a little over the top but that’s just what abuse does to you.

“I just came to check on you, Stiles. Scott asked me to,” Derek said calmly as if wanting to make crystal clear that if it were for _him_ he’d be at home in front of the TV with a beer in hand. His eyes were still flicking between Stiles’ neck and face. “His mom is home tonight, and he didn't want to sneak out.”

“Good,” Stiles gritted out, “you saw me, you – _saw_ how things went. Tell them you did a good job. There’s the door.”

But Derek didn’t move.

Hands in his pockets, he tilted his head a little to the right.

“He scent-marked you. Like... majorly,” he stated.

“ _I’m aware of that_ ,” Stiles hissed.

“Like a wolf, not like – what he really is.”

“So? What’s your fucking point?”

Derek was silent for a few moments, then, “You reek of him. Literally. It’s fucking disgusting is what it is. All wrong.” He screwed his nose up in disgust as if concentrating on exactly how repulsive Stiles’ new scent was to him and that did it for Stiles.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled and, pivoting on his heel, started in the direction of his bed to pick up his baseball bat. He wasn’t thinking.

He was just livid.

Maybe he had to take Theo’s shit but he wouldn’t let anyone else mistreat him ever again.

Bat in hand and the tiniest bit more composed, he added, “I swear, I’m going to beat the hell out of you if you don’t-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stiles,” Derek sneered, “You couldn’t kick my ass if you wanted to. And you know I’m right, about how wrong this is. Letting this _thing_ drool all over you – it’s like you’re not even part of the pack anymore.”

Stiles heart was beating so fast he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Shut the fuck up, Derek! If anyone’s not a real part of the pack, it’s you.”

“Is that how it’s going to be from now on? You _mating_ with that creature and then attacking us for giving you hell about it?”

Stiles stood there, mouth open, bat dangling in his right hand, forgotten.

He just couldn’t believe it.

So this was the reason Derek hadn't said a word before?

Because he was disgusted by Stiles? It hadn't been empathy or understanding or pity but shock about the prospect of one of his pack mates getting physical with the creature that was Theo?

So this was what Derek was really thinking?

“I didn’t have a choice and no one’s mating anyone-” Stiles started, hoarsely, but Derek interrupted him.

"You didn’t have a choice,” he repeated mockingly. “Of course you did, Stiles. You just weren’t fucking thinking, it’s what you _always_ do. You go out and do stuff and then we’re left to fix it.”

Stiles reacted almost instantly.

The bat slid out of Stiles’ finger and hit the ground with a clutter – and, man, Stiles’ dad must be a sound sleeper – and with a speed and force he didn’t even know he had in him Stiles took a leap at Derek, right hand clenched into a fist but before he could let it crash into Derek’s face the way he’d meant to, Derek snatched his wrist and yanked Stiles’ arm down in a quick and fluid movement, as if disarming him. As if he were Oliver Queen and not a fucking werewolf.

Within a split second, Stiles found himself kneeling on the floor, upper body hunched over so he was almost face planting onto the PVC, Derek pressing him down and twisting his right arm painfully up against his back, then catching his left and pinning it onto his back as well. Stiles was angry and hurting and confused. He yelped when Derek pushed his arms up a little higher, right to their breaking point, Stiles knew it, God, he knew exactly how much force it needed for an arm to spring out of its socket, for his bones to splinter.

Only Derek wouldn’t be able to make them magically knit themselves back together later.

“Fuck the – Derek, what the _fuck_... _ouch!_ Owww, _fuck_...”

But Derek didn’t say anything, nor did he loosen his death grip on Stiles’ wrists.

And all of a sudden there was the memory of something, random words popping up in Stiles’ brain and then, he remembered. It was Theo saying ‘loose cannon,’ loose cannon.... loose cannon, and ‘you never know with omicrons.’

You never know with omicrons.

Is that what it was, what Theo had meant?

Or was it really Stiles’ fault, his totally out-of-control-behavior that had gotten them here?

No, a voice whispered to him while Stiles was struggling and breathing against Derek’s painful grip.

No, Derek could just have stepped aside or caught your fist. Like he’s done countless times before when fragile humans tried to attack him.

No, this was different.

It was Derek’s fucking knee pressing down onto Stiles’ back now and then his left hand clutching at Stiles’ neck, not the way Theo had done before, but like he wanted to strangle Stiles and could just barely bring himself not to. Stiles’ whole head was being forced further down and his forehead hit the floor and Derek’s claws were digging into his skin and Stiles heard him growl, “Don’t ever try that again, Stiles.”

Then, a heartbeat later, the pressure on his neck and arms was gone.

Stiles let himself roll onto his side on the floor and then he was sobbing, he didn’t even care if Derek was hearing it or not.

Derek hadn’t actually broken his arms but the way someone who was supposed to be looking out for him, supposed to be his _friend_ , had forced Stiles down on the floor like a fucking criminal had just been savage.

The last straw.

Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

He was lying on his back, pressing his palms onto his eye sockets hard, tears drenching his cheeks, chest heaving with sobs.

The window was being pushed open and then, three seconds later, closed again.

Derek was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering: hey, 18 chapters in, is this unsettling mess of verb tenses and bad jokes ever going to end (Make it stop, please make it stop!!)? ---  
> I just suck at getting things done - ending a story always makes me sad (both when reading one or writing one) so in the past I always lost interest after like two years of chapter after chapter... ; plus, I'm one of the 5 crazy people on the planet who don't watch movies in one sitting because I want to have some more of the story to look forward to; then, sometimes, I forget all about it which is the reason why there's some movies that I've actually never finished watching.  
> Ok, so I'm really bad at that but I'm very determined to give this story an ending eventually - I have it all planned out now, I think, and in a way that might actually work the way I want it to. But it's going to take me a few more chapters... every time I try to force the Sterek scene it just seems implausible and I end up deleting it... so, I will finish this but not just yet.


	19. Pizza and Formaldehyde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hard to say, it's really a steo, sterek, steo mess...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning (yeah, a little late, I know) - rape, trauma, possibly PTSD - hurt Stiles all the way

Stiles thought he understood.

He’d picked himself up from the floor after over an hour, shuffled over to his bed and flopped down without even undressing.

He’d grabbed his earplugs and put on London Grammar so he wouldn’t have to listen to his own thoughts. When he awoke the next day, his phone was on the floor and dead and he waited until he’d had his first cup of coffee to plug it in and turn it back on. Then he called Scott and Lydia who’d both messaged him. They didn’t sound as frantic as they could have though and Stiles guessed correctly that Derek had probably filled them in. Told them about what he’d called Stiles’ ‘date’ but probably omitting the part where he’d gone full wolf on him, brutally pushing Stiles into a gesture of submission.

Yes, Stiles had come at him first but he’d been confused, angry, which Derek had certainly smelled but chosen to ignore.

And Stiles thought he understood.

Since it was Saturday, he could kick back and push everything that might cause him discomfort far away from him. No need to face anyone, he’d made that pretty clear on the phone and Scott, of course, respected that. Maybe even understood it.

His thoughts kept returning to Derek, and Stiles was still mortified about the fact that the wolf had seen through him so clearly. Well, not that that had been so very hard. Stiles had examined the hickeys on his throat and neck the next day and while there were only three of them rather than ten as he’d expected, they were big and red and just... very visible.

He’d be forced to wear a stupid turtleneck for the next two weeks and look like the biggest douchebag on the planet.

Stiles just didn’t have a turtleneck face was the thing.

And what’s more, the night before he had reeked of Theo, and, a day later, probably still smelled like him.

No wonder that Derek in particular had been repulsed by that. After all, hadn’t Theo’s mere presence been enough before to cause Derek to snap and go ballistic, hadn’t Stiles witnessed that more than once himself? Derek’s eyes flash neon green, his face go blank, and suddenly the beta possessed the power to pin the most powerful supernatural creature on the planet to the wall and beat the crap out of him?

Stiles shouldn’t take it personally then.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself over and over and yet.

Yet.

He felt hurt.

Derek’s anger had left Stiles a little more empty than before and it took him all weekend to get over it.

He spent all of Sunday in his room, doing his homework and studying, for God’s sake, only to keep his thoughts occupied.

 

 

 

Stiles has since bounced back. He’s alright now.

Stable.

It’s Monday morning and he shuffles into the classroom for first period, wearing a rather worn out zip up sweatshirt he’s pulled out from under his bed, one of these high collar thingies that Stiles has zipped up all the way to hide the red spots on his throat. He probably looks really douchy but still better than a James Dean style upturned collar. Because only James Dean could ever really pull these off.

He’s late, just as intended, so he can only give Scott, Kira and Lydia a nod, then demonstratively ignore Theo, before he slumps down in his chair. Barely five seconds later Coach Finstock is storming in and, after dropping a pile of books on the desk, dives right into the topic with his trademark mixture of aggression and confusion.

When they change classrooms for second period, they chat about insignificant stuff, Theo following a few feet behind them. Stiles doesn’t have to turn around to know that there’s a satisfied smirk on his face, doesn’t even need Scott hissing in his ear ‘Dude, you smell like _Theo_ ,’ before they take their seats in the chemistry classroom.

Yeah.

Yeah, he knows.

Derek had been pretty fucking clear about that.

And Theo smells at least faintly like Stiles.

His pack would just have to deal with it for God’s sake.

Stiles slams his books onto the table with more force than necessary and Mrs. Martin raises her eyebrows at him. Stiles is getting angry again.

But he’s just saying, yes?

If _he_ can deal with this shit – then his pack should sure as hell be able to as well.

 

 

Still, Theo is playing it glacier slow today.

He waits until recess to torment Stiles.

 

 

Stiles is standing with a small crowd of people and, yeah, he never realized how much the pack has really grown, it’s Scott and Kira, Lydia and Liam and Mason, even Malia is there, untypically shy and blushing whenever she’s being addressed.

Like she’s ashamed of refusing to choose between Theo and the pack. In fact, Stiles had been surprised to even see her at school. Apparently, a few things happened during the weekend but no one has bothered telling him about that yet, about what exactly happened _after_ Stiles had walked out of the animal clinic and gotten into Theo’s car.

So, maybe it’s the fact that Stiles is in-between Scott’s pack and Lucifer now as well that makes Malia’s decision to side with evil incarnate seem less like a betrayal.

Or it’s simply the fact that, bound by his deal with Stiles, Lucifer has become harmless to humanity from one day to the next – to anyone, that is, except to Stiles himself. And, just as promised, Theo’s disfigured playthings have disappeared from the woods around Beacon Hills, leaving the occasional limb or eyeball behind but, if Stiles caught that correctly, the pack had apparently taken care of that on Sunday – much to Lydia’s grief of course whose eyes are still red over the renewed loss of her pet, Paws the Second.

Whatever it is, Stiles is glad that Malia’s back with them and that he’s only feeling a faint pang and a tinge of shame every time their eyes meet. No big deal. He’d be over it soon and then they can start being friends again.

And everything will be peachy.

Right?

Perfect.

 

All the trauma past and future aside, this week is starting off better than expected.

 

Then, of course, Scott, who has been talking about a movie he and Kira went to see on Saturday, falls dead silent all of a sudden.

Stiles doesn’t have to wait for that hand squeezing his shoulder to know that Theo is here.

They all stare at him.

At him, Stiles and at Theo.

Wide-eyed.

With something like – disgust? – playing around their faces, with Liam and Mason and Kira it’s a little more subtle, with Scott and Lydia very obvious.

And Stiles isn’t sure whether it’s only Theo.

Whether it’s not him, Stiles, too, who is starting to become repulsive to his friends and pack mates.

 

Theo lets his hand linger on Stiles’ right shoulder and Stiles doesn’t dare shake it off. Theo’s looking good, as always, Janine might even call him _gorgeous_ but well, that’s just Janine, right. That girl has been so into Theo from day one that she’s rendered completely speechless whenever he’s near which isn’t exactly great for her grades. And she’s not the only one.

This Monday morning in the first floor corridor of Beacon Hills High, people are acknowledging with interest that Theo Raeken somehow seems to have grown closer to Lydia Martin’s group of friends which is puzzling, _shocking_ even, when it had been widely understood before that they detested each other.

Seeing him stand with them now, however, is making a lot of sense to most people. It’s only natural for the hot guy to eventually join the Lydia Martin exclusive gang of the Beacon Hills High coolest and most fashionable. Lydia is the girl every guy wants to date and every girl wants to be, Scott McCall the captain of the lacrosse team, Liam a teenage heartthrob in the making, Mason handsome and funny – and all the guys are just ripped like, come one, _seriously_? – Kira awkward but wearing make up to school every day, plus she has this long and glossy black hair and is pale and pretty and only wears expensive brands, and Malia is just beautiful with her long tan legs and sweet face.

And then there’s Stiles Stilinski, the guy who’s standing oddly close to Theo Raeken right now.

And people are looking Stiles up and down, letting their gaze linger on Theo’s hand that is still on Stiles’ shoulder and it’s obvious what they’re all thinking.

Just look at him. At Stiles.

What did _he_ ever do to be counted among the popular kids.

Right?

Exactly.

I mean, you busted your ass to not be a total loser, to look fashionable and skinny and like a sixteen-year-old hooker with your dark red lipstick and these 5-inch-heels you’re wearing and still –

Is Theo Raeken putting his hand on _your_ shoulder?

No, he fucking isn’t.

So what did Stiles Stilinski ever do to deserve that.

 _Some_ call him handsome but no one can deny that he’s sort of weird, the way he would fidget and blush and trip over his own legs.

Granted, he’s a senior now and he’s grown calmer and taller and his hair is longer and – there’s just something undeniably _attractive_ to his face and to these cat’s eyes of his but the fact that he’s the one around whose shoulders Theo Raeken is putting his arm now as if it were nothing, as if they were best buddies, is just – _unexpected_ , to say the least.

There’s a murmur in the hallway and Stiles is looking left and right, apparently aware of the fact that people are talking about him.

And he’s blushing, well, how cute is that.

Alright, alright, he _is_ sort of cute, this Stiles.

But Theo is so _handsome_.

Like, seriously, that _face_ , and, he’s so fucking cool, just the way he talks, did you hear what he said to Carver the other day when he asked him about, like, was it the _Columbian_ War or something? Whatever, he’s just such an _old soul_ and I think, oh my God, he’s looking over here, oh God, no, wait, _don’t_ turn around now but – what the fuck is going on?! Oh my God, did you just fucking see that? Arlene, did you catch that on video?

 

 

Stiles is vaguely aware of eyes being flicked over to them now and again, at Theo especially but then, people are just obsessed with singling out a senior and endlessly crushing on him and when Theo suddenly leans in and gives Stiles a peck on the lips, it’s like all the sound has been sucked out of the entire corridor, from the math classroom to the teacher’s lounge.

“I’ll see you later,” Theo says, then turns around and walks away, amused smile on his lips as he’s strutting through the crowd of students gathered in front of their classrooms, students who aren’t even trying to hide their shocked expressions, who are raking their eyes up and down Theo’s body shamelessly.

Stiles for his part is just standing there, rooted in place, cheeks very, very red while all around him people start talking, whispering.

_Oh, my gosh, did you see that?_

_Did he just kiss him?_

_Theo Raeken kissed Stilinski, no, seriously, I’m not messing with you!_

_What the – what’s going on?_

_Is Theo gay? Like, I thought he was into girls because he doesn’t look gay, do you think he looks gay? Oh no, that’s such a pity, I thought he was so good-looking..._

God, people are so fucking stupid.

Look gay? What is that even supposed to mean? And why would that be a pity?

Stiles presses his lips together, directs his eyes back to his friends but they, too, are staring at him. Only Malia doesn’t look particularly interested, she’s flicking through her smartphone, but the others seem to be at a loss for words.

Not like they didn’t expect it but it’s like – hypothetically knowing it is one thing, but then actually fucking seeing the devil kiss your friend, entirely different story.

So excuse the fuck out of them, if they’re a little shocked.

Well, not Scott though.

Stiles’ heart sinks when he realizes that that look on his best friend’s face, jaws clenched, eyes narrowed – that’s _anger_.

Scott looks furious.

When their eyes meet, Stiles can tell that Scott is trying to hide it. He frowns and forces his shoulders to relax and says, “So... Theo’s really... like...”

“Ahem, we’re going to let you guys talk, kay?” Kira says, her voice a little too shrill maybe and the others murmur in agreement and turn around.

“Sorry,” Stiles says as soon as they’re alone.

Well, relatively speaking. The corridor is still packed and there’s still way too many people staring at Stiles but at least they’re not able to listen in.

“What? Don’t be silly, Stiles,” Scott says and slaps his friend over the shoulder. “I should be sorry for letting that happen. It just-,” and, at a loss for words, he looks around, lets his eyes glide over this and that, as if what he wants to say were written out in big bright letters somewhere on the wall, or the lockers, or people’s foreheads, “it just makes me so angry to see Theo... _claim_ you like that. That’s all. I feel like – I want to murder him – no, I’m fucking serious. I want to claw his throat out so badly, it’s not even funny anymore...”

“Please don’t,” Stiles says, and he knows he sounds tired. He just can’t have another hour of explaining to Scott why he won’t be able to even come near Theo. He just can’t do it.

They’re directing their steps towards the history classroom.

“Thanks to your deal I can now, can’t I?”

And here we go again.

“You apparently still don’t understand,” Stiles mutters. “He’s still – he’s still _Lucifer_. He promised not to hurt you, yeah, but there’s still a lot he can do to keep you from ripping his head off, Scott. Besides... Hellish power just trumps alpha power... and even if – and that’s a big if, dude – you’d manage to end him, he’d just come back. Take another body and come back to seek revenge and then, there’s no deal anymore, no stopping him. I appreciate the thought, Scott – but there’s nothing you can do.”

He takes in a deep breath, forces himself to say, “All things considered – it’s good the way it is now. In balance, somehow. Okay?”

Scott shrugs and, to Stiles’ surprise, there is the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“Well, I guess then all’s up to Derek now.”

Stiles reaches for the door handle, frowns.

“You saw Derek beat the crap out of him, right?,” Scott says, “I think he might be able to somehow – I don’t know, restrain him or something. Just beat him up once every week so Theo’ll take seven days to knit himself back together. And then, just do it again. That would pretty much incapacitate him permanently, don’t you think? And,” interpreting the worried expression on Stiles’ face correctly, “It doesn’t even matter if he hears us talking about this. There’s literally nothing he can do about it.”

When Stiles doesn’t pull the door open, Scott reaches for the handle and, giving Stiles one last encouraging smile, he shoves him through the door.

Stiles follows Scott to their seat by the window.

Great, rely on Derek for help.

Judging from past experience, Derek might sooner rip Stiles apart than Theo. It’s like Stiles can still see Derek’s face scrunched up in disgust, hear the words being thrown at him disdainfully again.

_Letting this thing drool all over you – it’s like you’re not even part of the pack anymore._

Derek made it pretty clear that by entering into a deal with Theo Stiles has become Derek’s personal enemy. So, no, Derek won’t help him.

Why can’t Scott just let this one slide without making elaborate plans once in a while?

It’s over and they lost.

Stiles lost.

But there has never been any chance of them winning in the first place anyway. And why can’t Scott see that what Stiles got out of this is a million times better than what they got before?

Best case scenario before his deal with the devil: Theo tortures Stiles to death so fucking slowly, Stiles might still be able to graduate.

Worst case scenario now is Theo fooling around with Stiles for a while, then getting bored and that’s that.

But there’s no way of getting rid of him _right now_.

Stiles has long accepted that.

He just wonders when Scott will be able to as well.

 

 

Stiles starts working out.

First thing after school is over on Monday he hits the gym and only leaves when his legs are shaking so much that he can barely stand. On Tuesday, Liam and Mason have to practically tear him away from the weight bench. But it’s not like he gets so much exercise during lacrosse practice when it’s clear anyway that he’ll stay benched until all eternity because he sucks, right?

On Wednesday morning, the muscle ache is killing him but it feels good. Not that Stiles is into pain – there’s really nothing he’s into less – but it’s so physically draining that his mind is completely empty and he’s already falling asleep when he’s not even quite home yet. Theo of course has been frowning about Stiles’ new-found passion for weight lifting and going for two-hour-runs but there’s not much he can do to keep Stiles from it.

Ha, no torturing Stiles, no restraining Stiles, yes?

‘I guess I’ll have to wait for you to slip a disc,’ Theo says darkly on Tuesday night after watching Stiles almost face plant into his soup. But Stiles still gets what he wanted because Theo drives him home and that’s it for the day.

Not that Stiles is really fully awake to acknowledge his victory. He falls asleep in Theo’s car, gets manhandled onto the couch in his living room and only wakes up when his dad accidentally sits down on him in the dark after getting home at 2am.

So, the whole thing may not be the most ingenious plan Stiles has ever come up with but it buys him time to adjust to the idea of being Theo’s – well, _boyfriend_ would probably be the most accurate term.

Unfortunately, Theo was right. Stiles cannot possibly maintain that pace. On Thursday, his feet almost refuse to unfold in the morning and his back and arms and chest and everything is hurting so much that he decides a boy-on-boy make-out session with the devil might just be the lesser evil.

So when Theo asks him on Whatsapp: _Grab a coffee and later_ _pizza and a movie?_

Stiles only messages back: _Ok_., and tries not to think about how little he wants to do that.

While listening to Mr. Carver, their history teacher, ranting about second amendment rights Stiles gets this crazy image in his head of Lucifer sitting in front of his laptop and googling _how do human males date?_

He snorts into his palm, a release of stress and anxiety more than a real laugh but he still gets a stern look and detention for Friday.

Carver’s a jerk but this spurs a brand new idea in Stiles’ brain to wriggle out of the next date – he just needs to cause enough trouble to be kept in school until – or, wait, maybe he could get his dad to ground him? The last time his dad actually locked him up in his room for punishment was when Stiles had been about eleven. He had, for reasons he couldn’t remember any more, put a hole into the living room wall big enough for him to climb through. Definitely a plan to get back to another time.

Now though.

It’s not the coffee or the pizza part that worry Stiles.

But watching a movie with Theo, really?

People make out during movies.

People have hot and passionate sex during movies.

“Mr. Stilinski, is everything ok?” Carver is saying because Stiles is looking pale all of a sudden.

Stiles shakes his head and the class watches him get up and leave the room, head off in the direction of the bathrooms to throw water into his face. He knows that Scott wants to follow him, is already messaging to ask what happened but Stiles ignores it.

He doesn’t throw up but can’t calm down enough to get rid of that sick feeling in his stomach either and when he shuffles back into the classroom, eyes averted to the ground, he’s still a little shaky.

Because, yeah, the thing is: whatever Theo has planned for today, Stiles will have to put up with it whether he likes it or not.

So it’s hardly a surprise that Stiles’ heart starts pounding the second he sees Theo emerge from the school building that Thursday afternoon. The weather is cloudy but warm and Stiles is waiting around with Scott and Kira. Students are brushing past him left and right, chatting and laughing and checking their phones.

Scott can probably smell the waves of anxiety rolling off of Stiles all of a sudden – or he picked up Theo’s scent – because he spins around and watches with a stony face as Theo is strutting towards them like he’s on the red carpet at the Academy Awards rather than a boring and slightly run-down school yard in Northern California.

“Hey guys,” Theo says and completely ignores the hateful look Scott is giving him. When no one greets him back, Theo takes his hand out of the pocket of his black jacket and extends it.

Stiles is just staring at it for a few seconds, not quite sure what he’s supposed to do.

Then, very reluctantly, he lifts his left hand and puts it into Theo’s. Like they’re in fourth grade again. He knows that people around them are watching as Theo closes his hand around Stiles’ with a little squeeze, gives him an appreciative nod.

And then pulls Stiles towards him and Stiles should have seen it coming but yet, he really, really didn’t, so he stumbles into Theo's arms helplessly.

Just – embarrassing, ok?

“Get your hands off him,” Scott snarls and Kira touches his shoulder to calm him down.

“Or what?”

Scott flashes his red eyes and Theo lifts his eyebrows, completely unimpressed.

“Scott! There’s people everywhere!!,” Kira says, looking left and right with an anxious expression on her face, making sure no one saw that.

“I’m – fine,” Stiles mutters.

Scott doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t do anything – he looks like he physically can’t. His face is strained and body looking oddly stiff. He looks a lot like a werewolf struggling to step over mountain ash but Stiles knows it must be something Theo is doing because the bastard is smiling and lifting his eyebrows at him.

“Really, Scott? Come on, I thought you were smarter than that...”

“Gnnnnn,” is all Scott can get out. Stiles can see that he’s sweating but he can't even advance an inch towards Theo.

People are starting to throw them really weird glances and Stiles whose hand is still locked with Theo’s nudges him in the side, says, “Please.”

And Theo nods.

“Let’s go.”

The second Theo turns away from Scott, the invisible barrier obviously disappears because Scott stumbles forward and hits the asphalt hard which excites a cruel snicker from Theo.

“You may be stronger than me but Derek will come for you, you son of a bitch,” Scott snarls, picking himself up again.

Theo stops and turns around.

“Aw, sorry to disappoint you, Scott, but he won’t.”

Scott who is dusting off his jeans just glowers at him but Kira says, “Why?”

Theo lets his eyes rest on her and she blushes but does not avert her eyes.

“Because, Kira,” he says, “deal with the devil always beats pact with an angel.”

 

 

“Do you come up with these badass lines all by yourself or is there a book for that,” Stiles mutters as he stumbles alongside Theo in the direction of the parking lot. Theo lets out a chuckle but doesn’t respond.

They’re still holding hands like a couple in grade school and, passing by a group of sophomores, Stiles can’t help but notice the stares, the wide-open mouths and _did you see that_ ’s. Stiles’ cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red but Theo seems to enjoy putting on a little show because when they reach his car – it’s the sports from last week again which by itself usually suffices to draw everyone’s attention, even and _especially_ , the teachers’ – he doesn’t unlock it.

“Aren’t we getting in?” Stiles says, puzzled.

Theo, son of a bitch that he is, only responds with a smirk. He pulls Stiles towards him by the hand and then pushes him up against the car.

“H-hey, what-”

“Smile. People are watching, Stiles.”

“I’m aware of that which is why I’d rather you didn’t,” Stiles mutters, struggling against Theo’s body but Theo is just too strong. Stiles is trapped, boxed in between the car and Theo’s chest.

“Ah, no fighting me, Stiles. Remember?”

Theo’s face is so close to Stiles’ that he can feel his hot breath on his skin. In the distance, Stiles can see Scott and Kira still standing there, staring at them and Stiles doesn’t need wolf senses to know that his best friend’s blood his boiling with anger. Stiles for his part is pale, with bright red specks on his cheeks that he always gets when he is agitated and when Theo leans in to kiss him he’s already shaking from the adrenaline of being so close, way too fucking close, to him.

“Stiles...,” Theo says and pulls back a little, giving Stiles more room to breathe. He’s shaking his head in mock-disappointment. “You know that’s not how people kiss...”

“What would _you_ know about that,” Stiles shoots back.

“Stiles,” lower and more sharply this time with just a _hint_ of anger, “we’re doing this. You know what you agreed to.”

“You fucking tortured me, Theo, I can’t just get over that because you say so,” Stiles hisses but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he bites his tongue. Across the parking lot, Scott is still looking at them and Stiles knows that he’s listening to every word they’re saying. It’s not like Scott doesn’t know but – Stiles would prefer for his friends to think that this whole devil’s boyfriend thing isn’t a big deal for him.

That Stiles is, you know, cool with it.

Guessing his thoughts – again, creepy much? – Theo leans in until his lips brush Stiles’ left ear, and whispers, “You don’t want your friends to think you’re being harassed, right? Come on... for Scott...”

Stiles doubts that watching his best friend kiss the king of hell back would make Scott very happy but he gets the point. Besides, as soon as he's struggling too much, he can feel that force acting up on the inside and this time it’s not a feeling of empowerment but an uncomfortable pull.

Like Stiles is about to peel out of his body.

It’s warning him, making sure he respects the agreement.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm the _fuck_ down, Stiles is telling himself, just forget about Scott and Kira and the fact that you want to cut that fucking smirk out of Theo’s face and just-

Theo gives him a few seconds and when their lips meet again, Stiles is prepared.

He starts moving his tongue, slowly at first.

Theo lifts his arms and wraps them around Stiles shoulders, leans in, and Stiles can feel just how ripped Theo really is.

It’s like his chest and upper arms are made out of steel, like Theo’s a living and breathing bear trap.

As if Stiles needed any reason to be even less attracted to the idea of making out with Theo.

But okay, he can do this.

He can, he will.

Stiles lets his own hands glide further and further up, very reluctantly, and puts them on Theo’s hips, lets them linger there and he can feel Theo smile against his lips.

The sensations raging around in Stiles’ chest are impossible to capture.

Just like the week before, Stiles is uncomfortable, so deeply and desperately uncomfortable, and yet, when Theo’s tongue is pushing into his mouth relentlessly and it’s like Theo is trying to cover every inch of his chest and stomach with his own body and his belt buckle is pressing into Stiles’ crotch because, hilariously, Stiles is _taller_ than Theo, it’s only then that Stiles gradually, yeah – he’s _almost_ – turned on.

The combination is making him nauseous and he tries to resist the urge to push Theo from him and empty his stomach out all over the asphalt, unsure whether he’d rather taste his own bile or Theo’s fucking saliva.

“Get a _room_ , Bilinski.”

Stiles opens his eyes and they both turn their heads.

Coach Finstock is about to get into his shitty blue car next to them, a mixture of a frown and a smirk playing around his face.

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you exploring all your – options,” Finstock mutters, “and it’s not like you’ve ever been a success with the ladies, right, given how skinny and just plain awkward you are, but you’re a little too old to be making out in public. Like, come _on_.”

He unlocks his car – actually has to stick the goddamn key in and turn it – and opens the door. A drawn out _creeeeeeeeek_ echoes across the parking lot.

“On a side note, though, Bilinski,” Finstock says and lifts his eyebrows at Stiles, “Good catch. Raeken’s definitely a keeper.”

Then Coach is swallowed up by his car. He pulls the door shut – twice, because it doesn’t close the first time – and all they can hear now is him muttering while fumbling the key into the ignition.

“Let’s go,” Theo says, “better hurry before Finstock pulls out and accidentally kills us.” He motions for Stiles to round the car and get in before Finstock can start the engine. Which, judging from the curses reaching their ears now, and the repeated thuds of Finstock hitting the steering wheel in frustration, should only be a matter of hours.

Stiles climbs into the passenger seat. When he reaches for the seat belt he can’t help but mutter, a sour look on his face, “ _Your_ name he remembers but four years of playing lacrosse in this dump and I’m still _Bilinski_...”

Theo starts the engine, grinning from ear to ear.

 

 

 

Stiles is clutching his coffee pot, blowing at the steam.

“What?”

Theo who had been watching him in silence says, “Nothing. Do you want me to cool your coffee?”

“No,” Stiles says back, and then, “... thanks.”

Of course Theo would lift his eyebrows at that.

“So civil today, Stiles. I’m proud of you. Seems like you really learned your lesson.”

Stiles grimaces but remains silent, continues to stare at the white threads that are rising from the black surface in the cup like ghosts from a dark pond.

“What is hell like?” he suddenly says, looking up.

“Hell?”

Theo takes a sip from his cappuccino. “You want to know what my world is like?”

“What else would that sentence mean?” Stiles says drily and Theo shrugs.

“Ok, well, if you want to know... it’s like nothing you can imagine, I guess. It’s not Catholic hell, if that’s what you mean, it’s – the world below. Or, _inside_ , would probably be more accurate.”

“Inside?” Stiles frowns. “Like – core-of-the-earth-inside?”

Theo shakes his head and leans back, eyes turned to the ceiling like he’s thinking.

“No, as in: dimensions. It’s the one that the earth wraps around. But it’s a different form of existence. For instance, there’s no time.”

Stiles knits his eyebrows and wonders if Lydia would get any of this. Theo probably wouldn’t have to dumb it down for her.

“Like... _Interstellar_ ,” he says and picks up his cup.

Theo nods slowly. “Well, yeah... I guess that’s a pretty good example even though physicists always forget to factor in the – what you would call the _supernatural_.”

“Aha.” Stiles tilts the cup and lets the coffee touch his lips, then puts it back down.

Yup, scalding hot.

“And heaven?”

Theo sighs. “My world, your world – they're just different planes of existence. Constantly interacting. People have understood that for a long time, I don’t get why the 21st century Western world is so resistant to that concept. It’s where you go when you die, too. You just – slip across.”

Stiles furrows his brow. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. But it seems ridiculous, with Theo just sitting there harmlessly, Theo who could answer any fathomable question – not like the ones Stiles had been asking when he was younger, like _Theo, why is the sky blue?_ – and just letting that opportunity slide.

And maybe, just maybe, Stiles could learn to actually get something out of this as well.

Theo is watching him.

“You don’t believe me.”

There’s this gleam creeping into his eyes, like he’s challenging Stiles to contradict him, and Stiles suddenly remembers why this would never work, why question time with Theo had usually been over really fast. Because Theo would get bored and suddenly show a vivid interest in making Stiles bleed. Sometimes it would take only a few minutes, sometimes all afternoon but Stiles wound up crying every time.

And who knows what Theo will come up with now. Needless to say, that mischievous look on his face alone is enough to unsettle Stiles, have him almost spill his coffee, but he tries to act cool, says, “No, I believe you. Surprisingly, even though you’re such a major dickhead, you're usually telling the truth.”

He’s staring down into his cup again.

“Ok, maybe not always.”

Stiles is thinking of the wild stories Theo kept telling him about his teachers and parents and friends and the next-door neighbor and the next-door neighbor’s cat.

“You used to tell me stories to manipulate me but whenever I ask directly, you never lie to my face. Why is that?”

Theo shrugs. “No idea. To keep you on your toes, I guess.”

“Mh.”

Before Stiles can say anything else the door of the small café goes _ching_ and Theo grimaces.

“Look who’s here. What a _surprise_.”

Stiles puts his cup down and turns around in his chair – and his face pales a little when he recognizes the person who’s taking a seat a few tables down, who is staring at them directly.

It’s Derek.

“Calm down, Stiles,” Theo says and rolls his eyes. “He keeps following you – has to and, judging from the look on his dumb face, he’s not too happy about it either.”

“Wh-what?”

Stiles turns back and stares at Theo who rolls his eyes again.

“Seriously, Stiles? Haven’t you understood anything?”

Stiles is too puzzled to be mad at that comment.

Derek _has to_ follow him?

“Does that have anything to do with... with m-my – with Phenuel?”

Theo nods, empties his cup and puts it back on the table with a _clink_.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. It reeks of _omicron_...”

Theo smirks and puts a few dollar bills on the table. Stiles throws a look at his untouched coffee.

“I’ll make you coffee when we get home. You’re drinking it black anyway, it’s not rocket science. And even if it were...”

When they pass Derek’s table Stiles tries to avoid meeting his eyes but can’t. Derek looks sort of tired, with dark bags under his eyes and, yeah, no wonder when he has to _follow_ Stiles around against his will, right?

Just when Stiles is directly in front of him Derek opens his mouth, looks like he wants to say something but then Stiles is at the door, Theo’s hand in the small of his back like they’re actually on a date, and then they’re outside on the sidewalk.

It’s too late.

 

 

Home, of course, is Malia’s.

Her dad is there as well and it seems like he really and genuinely likes Theo. Stiles wonders about the amount of brainwashing that was necessary to get a man like Henry Tate to let a sneaky guy like Theo stay in his daughter’s bedroom. When Mr. Tate shakes Stiles’ hand and smiles at him with glazed over eyes and calls him ‘Jonathan’ the case is clear for Stiles.

“He’ll be alright,” Malia says but her shaky voice betrays that she doesn’t quite believe her own words. “Don’t look at me like that, I’d never let him hurt my dad, Stiles!”

Stiles shakes his head. From the looks of it, Theo already did. Malia just doesn’t know what he got herself into – or doesn’t want to know.

Then Theo is back, he shuts the door with his foot and throws a pizza carton at Stiles, drops another one on the desk in front of Malia. Then he climbs onto the bed and slumps down next to Stiles.

The hole in the wall is gone and as far as Stiles can tell the room got a new coat of paint. There’s a second bed where Malia’s dresser used to be. The house only has two bedrooms and Stiles decides not to comment on how fucking weird it is that Theo would want to sleep in a room with Malia when he could easily take his money or work his magic to, say, add another room, or get a bigger house or just get a house for himself.

Stiles stuffs his mouth with pizza so as not to change his mind about saying something. It’s useless, would only make Malia nervous, cause her to worry and freak out when she begins to understand that this is _so like Theo_.

He’d never stay on his own.

It would be too fucking tedious for him.

And Stiles can only guess how many mind games and brainwashing is necessary to compensate for the loss of his favorite pastime.

To keep him entertained enough.

Then, suddenly, a thought crosses his mind and he says, mouth still full, “Mh, wait, did you say Derek smells like _Omahas_?”

“Omicron. About time that you asked. I was starting to worry about your brain, Stiles.”

“What-”

“Just as you made a deal with – well, with _me_ , Derek made a deal with an angel – a creature from the world above,” Theo says, “effectively making Derek Hale an omicron.”

“Omicron?”

Stiles frowns, puts down his half-eaten slice of pizza.

Malia is sitting at her desk, back turned towards them. She is chewing in silence. It looks like she’s doing homework because Stiles can hear her sharpie scratching across paper.

“Rather than a beta, or an alpha, Derek Hale is an omicron who can never really fit with his pack again,” Theo explains, “but remains an Other, you know... a stranger, in-between earth and heaven – and will be until the pact is resolved.”

“And when exactly will that be?”

Theo shrugs.

“No idea. The fine print is different every time, you see.”

“So it’s not like – like our... deal?”

“No. Just as the duties differ from deal to deal, so does the punishment for breaking it. Ours is a life-time thing – it will only end if either one of us dies or if one of us releases the other.”

Stiles nods. He’d known that instinctively the moment the thin purple threads had reached his fingertips. That’s probably the ‘fine print’ Theo is talking about.

The conditions, engraved into your brain, impossible to overlook.

So, basically the opposite of fine print.

“So, I could say ‘it’s fine, I let you out of it’ now and-”

“ _No_ , Stiles, if it were that easy the whole thing wouldn’t be worth very much, would it.” Theo smirks, raising his eyebrows at him as if wanting to say, _are you even listening to yourself_.

“Then, how do I get out? If I don’ want to die, I mean,” Stiles says.

Malia is sitting at her table, completely motionless. Stiles can tell that she’s listening. Theo, however, doesn’t seem to be aware of it.

He takes another bite from his pizza, chews slowly, swallows, then says, “It’s about timing, Stiles. _You_ could only let me out of it if you said the words in exactly the right moment.”

“And when would that be?”

“If _I_ were on the verge of breaking the pact – then _you_ could say the words and let me.”

“ _Let_ you.”

“Yeah, let me break it. Let me get back to cutting you open, for example.”

Stiles grimaces. The gentleness with which Theo’s lips wrap around the word ‘cut’ sends shivers down his spine.

And what would that even look like?

_Oh, Lucifer, please, making out with you is so much fun but can you please get back to burning my skin with a lighter? I do miss the excruciating pain and fear of death!_

Or, maybe: _Ah, I know how much you want to break my wrist and ankle, I can’t bear to see that longing in your eyes, please, go ahead, I let you out of the deal!_

Yeah, right.

“That’s – that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Why would I ever want that?”

Theo shrugs again.

“That’s the rules, Stiles. And you could _want_ that because... say, you’ve grown attached to me and you’d rather go back to being tormented by me again than have me banished from earth,” he says and gives Stiles a dirty grin.

Stiles only snorts, like _Yeah, as if that’s ever going to happen_.

They are chewing in silence for a minute. Stiles is staring at Malia’s back. Her pen seems unstoppable now, it’s just flying across the pages. Weird, usually she’s staring holes into the air more than she’s solving math problems. But who knows, maybe there’s a way for Theo to make people magically understand math. Stiles makes a mental note to ask him about it.

Now that he’s not dying from suicide to escape the devil’s torture, something like that would really come in handy.

“So Derek’s an omicron... Scott’s an alpha, everyone else is a beta – what letter am I? Rho? Sigma?”

“Memorizing the Greek alphabet just like the geek I always expected yout to be...," Theo says. He closes his pizza carton and shoves it off the bed. It lands on the floor with a _thud_.

“But I have to disappoint you – the letters only refer to supernatural creatures. Hunters came up with that system to describe the supernatural status of different species, you know... stuff like, how powerful they are, where that power comes from and where their place is in the supernatural world. It was so commonly used around 400 BC that it just... stuck. But you, Stiles – since you’re not supernatural, you don’t fit into it. You’re just another human who made a deal with the devil... oh, don’t look like that. You’re special to _me_.”

Theo’s lips widen into a vicious grin and Stiles’ heart sinks.

Conversation over.

Theo looks at him for a moment, then starts crawling towards him on the bed, and Stiles knew it, he just knew Theo would do that. He pushes his pizza carton away from him, then just sits there, leaning back against the wall, stiff like a wooden puppet, waiting for Theo to touch him, trying not to freak out.

The thing is that, while Lucifer is behaving like a perfectly normal teenager – well, most of the time, that is – there are still these moments.

Moments like this one.

When Theo jerks his head in Stiles’ direction in a not-quite-human movement and Stiles is made once again eerily aware of _what Theo is_.

He reaches for him and Stiles can’t bring himself to meet him halfway. He just continues to sit there watching as Theo draws himself up in front of him.

He smirks at Stiles who just stares back and then Theo is kissing him.

Stiles responds wearily with one or two flicks of the tongue but doesn’t even as much as turn his head to make it easier for Theo to reach him.

He should, of course, have foreseen Theo’s next move.

Without breaking the kiss he grabs Stiles by his shoulders and manhandles him onto his back, roughly pushing him into the mattress.

Stiles who suddenly finds himself facing the ceiling can’t even voice his surprise because Theo’s tongue is sliding in-between his lips.

Theo’s chest is pressing down onto his own, holding him firmly in place and Stiles is surrounded by the scent of his aftershave and shampoo and when Theo’s hands find their way underneath Stiles’ t-shirt, starting to push it up, he can’t take it anymore, it’s just too much.

“Theo, wait, stop,” he says, breaking the kiss by actually pushing Theo’s head away with both his hands. “Can you – only for a minute. _Please_...”

Theo lets out a long drawn sigh, pushes himself up from the mattress and flops onto his back.

“What is it now, Stiles?”

Annoyed.

“This is going – it’s all... too fast,” Stiles mutters. “If you don’t want me to throw up all over the comforter you should give me a minute or two to breathe now and then.”

And really, that feeling of nausea, it's growing worse.

It might be because his stomach is full of pizza. Or, it might be the fact that just smelling Theo still causes Stiles to feel anxious and stressed out, bracing himself for the pain, sending him flying into panic attack after panic attack.

Theo rolls his eyes but says, “Fine.”

They sit there for a few moments without moving and Stiles thinks he can almost hear Theo count down in his head. And sure enough, after what could hardly have been more than two minutes, he turns towards Stiles again, mischievous smile on his face.

“You do know that by being such a diva, you’re only enticing me to prolong this as much as I can.”

Yeah, that’s what he thought.

Stiles is staring at the ceiling. How little enthusiastic he is being about the whole thing, his visible reluctance bordering on disgust, doesn’t seem to bother Theo at all. Rather, the more Stiles wants to push him away, yell at him, punch him, run out of the room, the more fun this seems to be for him.

Go figure.

“Stiles?”

Alright then, since it can’t be helped...

Stiles takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes.

Nods.

Suddenly, Malia shoots up from the desk and Stiles flinches, startled. He can hear the sound of paper being scrunched up.

“I’ll give you guys some space,” she mutters, and out she flies, slamming the door shut behind her.

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s glad that she’s gone.

Having his ex-girlfriend watch him getting groped by the fucking devil, and against his will too, would be the icing on the freaking cake of fear and discomfort. Then again, with Malia there, Theo wouldn’t – there’s just certain things he wouldn’t do, right?

But come to think of it...

From all Stiles’ knows Theo has literally no boundaries.

Absolutely shameless.

So, yeah, it’s probably best for Malia to just wait in the living room, have a chat with her dad.

When slender fingers are wandering down his body feeling, searching, _stroking_ , Stiles takes in another deep breath.

Holds it.

God, thank God, Malia isn’t here.

 

 

What Stiles cannot see of course is that Malia is still standing in front of the closed bedroom door staring at it as if she had laser vision. From the way her nostrils quiver you can tell that she’s sniffing the air, listening, waiting.

Waiting.

For what?

Then she pivots on her heel, without a sound, like a cat – like a _coyote_ – and quickly takes off in the direction of the kitchen.

The door creaks open, it’s just the faintest of sounds but Malia still throws it an angry look as if making a mental note to fix that next chance she gets. She lets the door click shut, eyes scanning the brightly lit room for a heartbeat or two.

If you took a photo of this exact scene everything would appear perfectly normal. You’d look at it and put it down again wondering why anyone would even bother taking a photo of this in the first place.

The tapestry on the walls is yellowed and old-fashioned, everything is neat and clean but a little worn from everyday use. Like the kitchen of a family who make little money go a long way, who handle the few things they own with care. You can imagine them come in here every day, preparing and eating breakfast, lunch and supper, cleaning up together afterwards. Maybe they’d turn on the old radio that sits on a shelf over the counter, too. You can picture it perfectly – but they’re not here now of course, the room is lying in silence. Nothing out of the ordinary, yes?

Prop up a video camera here though.

Different story entirely.

You could watch a two-hour-tape of the room and the only thing moving would be the hands on the clock over the kitchen counter by the window.

It would be only after a few minutes – maybe it would even take you a little longer – that you’d realize there is a man sitting at the kitchen table in the right hand corner.

Sitting there, perfectly immobile, staring into the room with wide open eyes, mouth screwed half open in an eerie laugh, frozen on his face.

Unseeing.

Malia shoots him a glance now, and it’s only from the way her gaze lingers that you feel like you should look at him more closely, too, and then you start to understand.

Yes, it’s Mr. Tate but he looks so different.

His skin doesn’t look like skin, his hair doesn’t look like hair. The colors are correct but if you’d touch him you’d know the texture is all wrong. More like plastic.

Or like the gooey consistency of a corpse steeped in formaldehyde.

Malia is hesitating only for a moment.

Then she walks over to the other end of the small room, leans across the counter. Pushes the window up.

She draws herself up and climbs out into the night. Lets the window glide shut again almost without a sound.

Malia’s outside but the room is still there.

Framed by the window, her figure is walking away from the house in the direction of the forest, determined, her right hand closed in a fist, what looks like a scrunched up piece of paper sticking out between her fingers.

A few moments later she gets swallowed up by the darkness and everything is as it was before, almost like she has never even been here.

 

And the room just sits there, waiting for her to come back.

Hands crawling across the face of the clock above the kitchen counter at a steady pace and without going _tick-tock_.

Muted, like the rest.

 

 

 

***

 

When Theo stops the car in front of Stiles’ house, they both look across the lawn and over to dark windows. No one home.

Yet.

“Sure you want to go in there? It’s past midnight and you know that that’s the time when bad things happen.”

Theo’s grinning at him but Stiles decides to ignore it.

“My dad will be home soon,” he says and unfastens the seat belt.

“Wait,” Theo grabs his arm to stop him from getting out, stares out into the darkness, listening.

Listening.

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard something. Never mind. It’s probably just Derek Hale lurking around your house again.”

Stiles tries to laugh it off. “As if he didn’t have anything better to do...”

Theo shakes his head, eyes narrowing.

“The fact that he can’t come between us anymore must drive him crazy, make the powers inside him go nuts. He was in the library that day, you know?”

Stiles who was about to push the car door open lets his hand sink and turns to face Theo.

“Derek? You – you mean last week?”

“He was outside the door listening to us making the deal,” Theo says nodding. “I picked up his scent.”

“But what – _why_ ,” Stiles starts, utterly confused.

If he’d been there – if Derek really and truly had been there – why hadn’t he kicked in the door?

How had he even known where Stiles was and what he was doing – what he was about to do?

And what if Theo is lying this time, messing with Stiles, confusing him, gradually separating him from his pack?

“I told you, Stiles,” Theo says, not smiling this time. He sounds weary, like having to explain why ice cream melts over and over again to a five-year-old.

“He’s _always_ been following you. God, Stiles, you’re supposed to be one of the smarter kids. Your beloved guardian angel and my old – _acquaintance_ – pushed his job onto the next person he could find not long after he caught on to the fact that he couldn’t, and would never, beat me to the game. Which just so happened to be Derek. But since you willingly entered a deal with me there’s really nothing he can do to protect you. Unless...”

There is a pause in which Stiles is staring at Theo and Theo is frowning, thinking.

“The only weird thing is...,” he starts again after a while, “I really wonder...”

Stiles’ mouth drops open.

He’s never ever heard Lucifer _wonder_ about anything before. Ever.

Lucifer simply doesn’t have to.

Everything is always already crystal clear to him.

But now, he’s sitting in his car parked on the side of the street in front of Stiles’ house, saying slowly, “The only weird thing is that he really should have barged in on us, keep the deal from happening. It would have been the only logical reaction. It’s probably why he was even there in the first place, his powers must have called out to him. But then he was just standing outside, his heartbeat calm and steady.”

Stiles blinks, furrows his brow.

“You mean, he wasn’t, like, agitated? Or angry or anything?”

Theo turns to look at him.

“No. Derek wasn’t surprised at all.”

 

 

When Stiles climbs the stairs to his room a million different thoughts are running havoc in his brain. Derek, Theo, omicrons, the devil and heaven, humans making a pact with the underworld, werewolves making pacts with angels.

The fact that he can still almost feel Theo’s hard-on pressing into his hips. Nothing happened but the day will come when Theo won’t be satisfied with just kissing and groping Stiles and the thought alone has him almost gagging in disgust.

It’s all too much.

But whatever is going to happen, Stiles is too tired to think it through now. He sheds his jacket in the hallway then walks up to his bedroom door, dragging his feet and yawning.

Still, he’s less shaken up than he thought he would be.

Theo still scares the fuck out of him but Stiles can feel how it could truly be better one day. And maybe he’d even get used to the constant touching.

Get used to him, too, the way Stiles had when he’d been a kid – it’s simply a protective mechanism,yes, and they’re both older now, more rational and less out of control. Maybe it will become something like a routine faster this time.

“Sleep,” Stiles mumbles but when he closes his door that option just goes straight out the window.

It’s saying a lot about how tired Stiles is that he doesn’t jump three feet in the air.

Or, he’s just so used to someone lurking in the darkness of his bedroom and waiting for him to come home.

So he only says, “What the fuck, Scott?” and flicks his eyes from his best friend over to Liam who’s sitting on Stiles’ desk, feet on his computer chair to Derek who’s leaning against the wall next to the window, arms crossed, looking tired and even grumpier than he did that afternoon.

As if he wants to make sure he’ll be the first one to be out of here once they’re done with whatever this is.

“What is it now? I’m fucking exhausted...,” Stiles mutters, suppressing another yawn.

Scott doesn’t respond. He inhales deeply, lets his eyes glide up and down Stiles’ body. When he grabs him and turns him around, Stiles says, “Heeey, what the fuck?!” and tries to shake Scott’s hands off.

“What the hell, Scott. I’ve just been groped for what felt like three fucking hours straight so can you please cut it out?”

“Sorry man, just checking,” Scott says apologetically, lifting his hands like _okay, okay, I’ll stop_.

“Just checking,” Stiles repeats turning around again. “What happened to politely asking?”

“Yeah, guess we could have done that as well. Not as quick though..."

Stiles is staring back at him coldly.

To his mind, there’s absolutely no fucking excuse for bothering him right now. Whatever it is, couldn’t that have waited until the next morning? They’ll be meeting in school anyway, and, as Stiles was saying, he’s _fucking exhausted_.

He can still taste Theo’s saliva in his mouth, for God’s sake.

“Sorry, man...,” Scott repeats, frowning. “We’re here because we might have come up with a plan.”

“Great,” Stiles says mockingly. He knows he’s being unfair but he’s been really on edge for a while now, yes?

“And how did you even get in here without – I mean-”

“We’ve been practicing to suppress our scent,” Liam says, proudly. “Derek has been teaching us.”

Stiles eyes flick over to Derek who doesn’t even move a finger at the mention of his name, he just keeps standing there, arms crossed, and in trademark brooding silence.

“Seems to have worked, too,” Scott says, nodding. “Otherwise, Theo would be all over this room by now. Speaking of which... Stiles, you smell like you – took a bath in – _Theo_.”

Stiles glares at him, mutters, “Yeah, that’s what it felt like, too...” With a look at Scott’s scrunched up nose he adds, “But Theo’s scent never bothered you before, so why-”

“I guess it’s just knowing what it _means_ that’s so repulsive to me,” Scott answers truthfully. “I’m so sorry, man...”

About all of this happening.

Yeah, Stiles knows.

“Derek says Theo’s scent makes him want to puke,” Liam interjects, eager to contribute to the conversation and Scott rolls his eyes. “Not helping, Liam. Derek’s programmed to hate it, so... I mean,” he adds quickly, “it’s not like you disgust him or anything...”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Scott. Oh really?

He can tell from the way the corners of Derek’s mouth are twisting downwards now what he’s really thinking and it doesn’t particularly lighten Stiles’ mood.

“So what’s the plan?”

Let’s just get this over with.

“Huh? Oh right... yeah. We thought taking Theo’s scent off of you might be a start. Even though it might take a while...”

Stiles frowns.

“Why?”

“Because Theo’s not just the king of hell. He’s also born a wolf, right? Malia’s dad is also Theo’s dad, so-”

“Peter Hale,” Stiles says, puzzled. Right, as far as they knew Malia and Theo were daughter and son of Peter Hale and a woman called the Desert Wolf. Stiles had known that hypothetically but never consciously made the connection.

Wait – _wait_ a second – that would make Theo Raeken the-

“Derek, he’s related to you,” Stiles blurts out, completely forgetting to be angry at Derek.

“Go figure,” Derek grits out.

“Anyway,” Scott quickly continues, “He’s been scent-marking you – that’s a wolf thing, Derek says, so it would really bother Theo’s wolf if someone else put their scent on you. And it wouldn’t even be forbidden, er... we think you’d be allowed to do that by contract because you’re still in my pack and stuff, Theo vowed to respect your social life. Friends and family. Right?”

There is a pause.

“Now would be the right time to say: Yeah, man, well done!” Scott adds. “I mean, it might really work. It’s the best we have, anyway.”

But Stiles is not impressed.

“Yeah, it might work and what then?”

“Theo will freak out, go ballistic and – problem solved.”

Stiles can only shake his head.

This again?

God, when will they ever understand.

“Scott, good thinking but – just how stupid do you think he is? Making him angry won’t be any good. If anything, that will just make things worse.”

“Wh-”

“ _Because_ ,” Stiles interrupts him, voice growing louder and louder with every word. He can’t believe he’s actually still having this fucking conversation, really has to spell it out to them again. For what feels like the hundredth time.

“That’s what he feeds off, don’t you get it, Scott? Lucifer thrives on resistance and anger and desperation. Plus, he’s much more than a wolf.”

“He’s much more than a wolf?” Scott repeats in disbelief. “Are you listening to yourself? You sound like you think he's some sort of - invicible bat out of hell.”

“ _Because he fucking is, Scott_! _He is_! Why won’t you _fucking_  get it already." Stiles can’t help but yell which makes Liam almost slide off the desk in surprise and Scott take a step back.

"I’ve had to deal with this for _months_ and _years_ all on my own and believe me, I tried literally everything. He simply can’t be stopped. He’s the single most powerful and ridiculously mean creature between heaven and earth. When will you guys finally fucking get that?”

“Alright, calm down, Stiles. We get it, we’re sorry.”

Stiles feels empty. He doesn’t want to be angry at Scott.

“Just... don’t give up. I think we can get rid of him. Just – let me try, ok?”

Stiles, staring at his socks, shrugs but it's really more an annoyed jerk of the shoulders like he's trying to shake off an invisible hand.

Scott won’t give up anyway so.

Whatever.

Scott carefully draws closer and Stiles averts his eyes when he wolfs out. He can hear a soft click when Scott lets his canines drop, hands metamorphose, and then carefully cups Stiles’ neck in his claws, pressing them gently against his skin.

No one says a word when Scott starts slowly rubbing his neck.

Stiles wonders whether a werewolf scent-marking his pack mate looks more or less ridiculous than the  _Twilight_ vampires sparkling away in the sun like a bunch of ill-fed strippers.

Then Scott stops, a puzzled look on his face.

Picks it up again, this time exerting more pressure onto his claws, letting them scrape painfully over Stiles’ already bruised skin.

“It’s not working, Scott.”

That was Derek’s voice. He pushes himself off the wall, walks over to where Scott is clutching Stiles’ neck.

“It – it’s like it rolls right off his skin, like he’s somehow – But... It’s an _alpha’s_ scent and Theo doesn’t have a pack, he’s practically an omega. I should be able to take it off easily.”

“Maybe,” Derek responds who is apparently particularly monosyllabic today.

“But, I thought – can Lucifer be an omega?” Liam says slowly and for once, Stiles thinks that Liam might actually have a point.

Derek seems to think so as well because he says, “What I’m smelling on Stiles is not just an omega’s scent. It’s something completely Other. It’s _Lucifer_.” He spits out the last word and Stiles can’t help but feel exposed once again.

Dirty.

He wishes Derek would stop staring at him like that.

“Ok, so it doesn’t work. Thanks for trying Scott,” he says and shakes off Scott’s claw with a jerk of the shoulder, “I’m gonna hit the sack now, so...”

Scott and Derek throw each other a look and Stiles isn’t liking this, isn’t liking this at all. He shoots a desperate glance at his bed that looks so soft and comfortable but before he can take so much as one step towards it, he’s down on his knees all of a sudden, eyes wide with surprise.

What the hell.

In a grotesque déjà-vu, Stiles finds himself on the floor of his bedroom again, only now Scott is there, too, who yells, “Derek, what the fuck! Easy!” and so is Liam who Stiles can only imagine has this befuddled look on his face right now like he’s not sure what to do or say.

“Let. Go,” Stiles mutters and starts fidgeting and wriggling out of Derek’s strong grip. On the bright side, no knee in his back this time, so we’re definitely making progress here.

“We have to try _everything_ , Scott, you know that. And for fuck’s sake, Stiles,” Derek says and he sounds really pissed off. “Just hold still for a goddamn minute.”

So Stiles is crouching on the floor, knees pushing both into the floor and his own chest painfully, letting Derek scratch his claws across his neck again and again.

“It’s working,” Scott says after a minute, “I can’t believe it, it’s working!”

“But why? You’re not the alpha, Derek,” Liam says but Stiles already knows the answer to that.

“Omicron,” he spits out, grimacing.

“Yes, Stiles. Omicron,” Derek says. “Angel power beats alpha power.”

He finally removes his hand and Stiles struggles to his feet again, looking flustered and angry. He glowers at Derek and says, “ _Don’t try that again_. Remember that sentence?”

Derek meets his eyes with a deadpan.

“Er... alright. Ok,” Scott says, clapping his hands as if they’d just been chatting and _oh, look how late it is, we gotta run, gotta pick up the kid from soccer practice._

“It’s working and that’s good right? I told you we can use your angelic powers, Derek.”

He gives the man an encouraging smile that Derek of course doesn’t return. Instead, he walks back to his corner, crosses his arms and sinks into another moody silence.

“So, a few more minutes and we’re good to go into phase 2.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

No, he won’t ask.

He doesn’t want to ask, really shouldn’t.

“Ok, what’s phase 2?”

But before Scott can say anything, Liam clears his throat. When they turn to look at him his cheeks are slightly red. He’s staring at his phone.

“Ah... my mom, er... she just figured out that I sneaked out again. She, ah – she sounds pretty mad... she says she’s going to ground me and put bars on my window – I should really go. S-sorry.”

“Yeah, sounds like you should. What time is it?”

“Ten to two.”

“Shoot, my mom gets home at two... same thing here, even though I doubt she’ll ground me. She’ll just stare at my with this, like, really disappointed look on her face...” Scott shudders.

“Ok, we’ve got to run. Derek?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just nods.

“Stiles, I promise you we’ll do everything we can to get you out of there before – before something happens.”

Before something happens?

Before – what exactly happens?

But Stiles just nods, goes, “Yeah sure... see you tomorrow...”

Then it’s just he and Derek.

Derek and he.

“Aren’t you leaving as well?” Stiles says coolly and it’s strange to have this invisible wall between them, like they’ve never even been close at all, or on the verge of becoming friends.

As if Derek hadn’t been sitting here, in this exact room, next to this bed and watching over Stiles only weeks ago.

What on earth happened?

“And what’s the matter with you anyway?” Stiles adds because Derek doesn’t look like he’s even hearing him.

“What pissed you off so much that you’re in such a mood again, like constantly?”

This excites an exasperated sigh from Derek.

“It’s Theo, Stiles. _Lucifer_.”

“Well, duh. Now you’re telling me...”

“Cut out the sarcasm,” Derek hisses and he’s taking a few steps into the room again.

“You know about omicrons because... Theo told you, right?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, but-”

“Did you stop to think about what that actually means, Stiles, for even a second?”

Stiles frowns.

“I’m supposed to keep you away from that demonic crap. Then you just went and did what you did and – now I can’t anymore. Do you even know what that’s like for me, Stiles?”

Derek lets his eyes fade into luminescent green and, for some reason, it makes him look almost _wild_ , like an aura of power is emanating from his body and he looks more inhuman than Stiles has ever seen him before as either beta or alpha. The mere sight makes the hair on his neck stick up.

First Theo and now this – this evening has turned into a series of frame grabs from a fucking horror movie.

“I can _hear_ you, Stiles,” Derek snarls and his eyes are turning greener and greener until Stiles can see nothing else but two emerald circles hanging in the air in front of him.

“ _Don’t touch me, get away from me, please, someone help me, please, please God.._.”

“Wh-what? I- I never said anything like-”

“But I can hear you _think_ it, every time that monster comes near you, only now I can’t fucking do anything against it.”

Stiles is backing off in the direction of the door and Derek is drawing closer and closer, one small step after another.

But is this still Derek?

He is wearing his trademark leather jacket, tight jeans, ridiculously handsome face but – he looks and _sounds_... otherworldly.

More even than Theo – less in control than Theo.

“I'm sorry if I don't handle you with kid gloves, Stiles, but I can sense the amount of distress that son of a bitch is causing you, so will you please – _please_ let me do something about it, for God’s sake.”

Derek’s eyes fade back to hazel and now he only looks tired.

“I – can’t, Derek. I’m sorry...,” Stiles mutters, avoiding Derek’s gaze.

“Yeah, I know,” Derek says and then, “And  _I_ am sorry. For _this_.”

He hesitates and it’s long enough for Stiles to raise his head and go, “Mh? For what?”

A second later, Derek has him pinned against the door.

“H-hey, what the – I get it, you want to scent-mark the hell out of me, alright, but is that really necessary?”

Derek only grunts in response. Stiles can hardly breathe and for a second – for a split second – he knows why Theo feels so _wrong_.

Why he would feel wrong even if he weren’t Lucifer, if they didn’t have this neat little history of pain and despair between them.

Stiles inhales Derek’s scent and he’s so close now that Stiles can feel the stubbles on his chin graze his cheek, his chest like steel but his hands on Stiles’ wrists softer than expected and there’s something he remembers.

And just when a warm and fuzzy feeling - of comfort, of safety - is washing over him, it happens and, in hindsight, Stiles should have known.

The fact that Derek has to snarl “ _Stiles_ – your _eyes_ – they’re _purple?_  What the hell...” to draw Stiles’ attention to it, for him to acknowledge the powers acting up in his own body, proves how – how _tired_ Stiles is, right?

Tired.

And there it is, powerfully tugging at his skin from the inside and Stiles just freaks out.

It's almost like he's watching it happen while already hovering a few feet above his own body.

He’s begging Derek to let him go and when Derek doesn’t move, he starts kicking and screaming.

“Sorry, Stiles, but I – I just – _hold still!_ ”

And then, “Thank God your dad isn’t home.”

He drags Stiles over to the bed and throws him down, face first. Stiles tries to free himself but can’t even lift his head from the pillow because Derek has a death grip on his neck and Stiles slides into full-blown panic mode.

All he knows is that Derek’s going to kill him, worse, he’s going to make him break the deal and then Lucifer will take him away.

“Stiles, shhhh, calm down, _God_ , I’m so fucking sorry...”

At least an apology.

That’s more than he got last time, right?

Still, Stiles won’t stop struggling as Derek pushes his claws into his neck almost hard enough to draw blood, simply because he _can’t_ , it won’t let him, he can’t stop.

After what feels like forever, Stiles is shaking and worn out and he knows he’s crying again and, because he’s been breathing into his pillow, also out of oxygen.

So he stops kicking, turns his head to the side, breath hitching, trembling fingers scraping over the sheets for a minute.

And then he just lies there.

Nothing has happened.

He’s still here, still Stiles.

Derek is rubbing his neck more gently again now, and after a while, Stiles has calmed down a little.

The tug at his skin is gone.

He is worn out and embarrassed and, quite frankly, just miserable.

Derek takes the pressure off Stiles’ back and settles down next to his body. Keeps brushing his claws over his skin.

Soon it starts feeling okay, just the steady pace at which Derek is doing it.

Calming him down more and more.

“See... just as Scott said. It’s a pack thing.”

Derek doesn’t voice his thoughts on why pushing Stiles up against the wall is not possible but sitting next to him on his bed and dragging his fingers across his neck is.

Stiles wonders whether he’s even making the connection at all.

He tries not to think about how Derek made him feel just now – before the powers Lucifer gave him started acting up and, well. Almost killed him.

“Stiles?”

Pause.

“Mh,” he says, voice muffled by his pillow.

“Can I – try something?”

“....mh.”

“I just want to see how far I can go.”

Stiles thinks, turns his head.

“No holding me down,” he huffs. “And you still owe me an apology for the last fucking time you did that. You – I just _hate_ that, ok? It's fucking rude.”

His cheeks are still wet and red from freaking the fuck out five minutes ago. He can’t see Derek’s face but, sure enough, “... sorry. I – told you, it’s difficult for me to control it. It’s like my wolf times a hundred thousand...”

“Fine,” Stiles mutters.

He’s still pretty shaken up but nothing could have prepared him for Derek’s next move anyway.

 

 

Derek is staring at Stiles’ neck for a second.

Ok, now or never. He has to try, must try, even though he’s not sure whether he really wants to. He’s just glad Scott isn’t here to glare at him.

But does it even matter at all?

After what he did to Stiles – after what he had to do again just now.

He practically feels like a fucking rapist already anyway.

So he lowers his head and then lets his lips brush over the skin on Stiles’ neck, over the ugly bruises that _thing_ left behind. That are turning an even deeper shade of purple from Derek dragging his claws over them.

Stiles reacts exactly the way Derek would have expected him to.

It takes him two or three seconds to realize that yes, that’s Derek’s _lips_ in his neck, and then he jerks up from the mattress, crawls away from him and, with his back to the wall, stares at Derek with wide eyes.

Shocked out of his fucking mind even though he’s so tired and - visibly beyond fussing over small things like a peck in the neck.

But maybe that's it. It's the sheer amounts of stress Stiles has had to go through this night, so that the stuff Derek is doing to him now might cause him to crack.

Like, if Derek were holding him down now and forcing him into a kiss might just send the boy over the edge.

Just look at him.

Cheeks puffy and wet, fingers trembling but his eyes are wide and glowing purple and Derek wonders whether Stiles can sense the weird mixture of guilt and heartache and - plain  _longing_ rolling off of his wolf – of himself – right now. But it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s just the omicron powers tugging at him, yes?

It’s uncomfortable as fuck but he’s going to learn to deal with it. He’d always known that there’s something strange to the way Stiles smells to him, like caramel and coffee and wet earth, and so different to the way guys are supposed to smell.

Take Scott’s scent, for example. He’s Derek’s alpha and his scent is good and familiar, it means safety, order, belonging – being _right_. But he never really thought about finding words to describe it, wondering what it reminds him of. It’s just – Scott’s scent. What’s there more to say?

Stiles though.

God, it’s nerve-wracking.

It puts a wedge in the neat order of Derek’s thoughts and life.

He’s talking to some chick in a bar and God does she want to bang him but Derek doesn’t go through with it because she doesn’t _smell_ right. He meets up with Scott and finds himself waiting for Stiles to come bouncing into the room behind him.

He’s having some Derek alone time and there it is, the memory of Stiles’ scent, and it’s the most fucking intrusive thing ever.

Derek ends up taking a cold shower.

Looking at Stiles now, the way he’s staring at him, eyes wide open with fear, hugging his knees as if shielding himself from further harm – from _Derek_ harming him – the purple glow in his eyes slowly fading away, Derek decides he can’t do it.

He can’t.

He fucking won’t.

If he has to live through Stiles shaking violently because of him, Derek, one more time he’s going to claw his own fucking throat out.

Farnuelle will punish him but – it’s like he can still hear these convulsive sobs that made Derek want to pick Stiles up and cradle him in his arms. Not because – no, not like _that_ but as his pack mate, his _friend_ , for God’s sake.

But he just left him there like the most repulsive creature on the planet.

He thought he could deal with the aftermath, the self-hatred, the guilt but now he finds himself – incapable of pulling through with it.

And maybe scent-marking Stiles would be enough. Maybe they wouldn’t have to go through with their plan.

Farnuelle’s plan, not Scott’s plan.

If Scott knew about this, he’d probably end Derek.

And Derek would deserve it.

“Go to bed, Stiles...,” he mutters.

 Stiles slowly unfolds his feet as if he isn’t sure if Derek’s going to attack him again.

“And,” Stiles says, clearing his throat but his voice is still raspy, “you’re just going to sit there and attack me while I’m sleeping.”

Eyes narrowing.

Derek huffs, raises both hands as if wanting to say, _fair enough_.

“You still reek of Theo, so...”

“And to take his scent off, you have to copy what he’s doing. Right?”

Derek keeps his eyes averted.

“I’m not going to,” he mutters, “maybe we can do it without – if I just rub your neck long enough. It might work.”

“You mean, it might actually work the way you told Scott it would.”

Derek sets his jaw.

Why does Stiles always have to be so quick, smarter than is good for him?

“It might.”

“Ok then.”

Derek lifts his head in surprise.

“What?”

“I said _ok_ ,” Stiles hisses, “Do what you have to do. It’s not like anyone’s interested in what I want.”

He grabs his t-shirt with both hands and just yanks it over his head. Drops it onto the floor next to the bed. Throws his right sock on top, then his left. Then he unbuttons his pants, shucks them down over his hips and kicks them off the bed, onto the pile. He’s kneeling on the bed in boxers and gives Derek a very tired look.

“Have you never seen a body without abs before?” he mutters and slips under the covers.

Derek, aware of the fact that his mouth is hanging half open, quickly shuts it, swallows, and shakes his head like, _No, that’s not it at all_.

_You’re fine, Stiles._

And to know, to fucking _smell_ , where exactly Theo had his hands a mere hour ago makes Derek want to –

“Go ahead,” Stiles mumbles into his pillow. “I’m alright now, I think. Just don’t wake me.”

Derek extends his hand to touch Stiles’ neck. His fingers are shaking and he knows he has to wolf out but he’s seriously worried that his eyes might turn green instead of blue and that he won’t be able to think clearly anymore.

He takes a few deep breaths and lets the tip of his index finger slide across his skin from left to right.

And back again.

The boy flinches, then relaxes against his touch.

“No kissing,” Stiles mumbles, “Th- Derek.” He sounds like he’s half asleep already.

Derek shakes his head, then remembers that Stiles can’t see him and says, “No. I – that was just – a _test_.”

Derek carefully lifts up a few strands of hair in Stiles' neck to uncover more of the purple and bluish bruises.

That’s where he – God.

Fuck.

And his hands are shaking because he wants to grabs these shoulders and press them down into the mattress and he wouldn’t be any better than the fucking _devil_.

He’s already a close runner-up.

“I can’t...”

“Derek?”

“Mh?”

“Can you rub my back?”

Derek frowns. “What?”

“A massage.” Stiles lifts his head from the pillow, eyes moist and sleepy. “I can’t sleep with you groping my neck like a... were-creep. Half-man, half-pervert...”

“I’m _not_ – I’m just-”

“Yada yada. Do it or get out.”

He lets his head flop back onto the pillow, closes his eyes.

Derek pulls at the sheets, uncovers Stiles’ naked back. His mouth is really dry all of a sudden. He puts the palm of his left hand in-between his shoulder blades. Then the right one.

Incredible. How can one fragile human body give off so much heat.

He starts making slow circles, letting his hands trail over Stiles’ shoulders – that are rock-hard by the way, just as Derek expected, and no wonder considering what Theo had been doing to him. What Derek had done.

When Stiles doesn’t complain, Derek puts a little more pressure into the strokes. His fingers wrap around his shoulders and he starts kneading them, and when Stiles lets out a soft moan of pleasure he feels like can’t think straight anymore.

There’s no fucking blood left in his head.

“You know what just occurred to me?,” Stiles is mumbling into his pillow, “I can never be with anyone, like ever. Like, I’m practically doomed to be a fucking celibate for life. Whenever I even _think_ about some cute girl, I can feel this fucking purple venom pull at me from the inside. That just... sucks... It’s fucking hard to get off like that...”

Derek swallows hard. He is pretty sure he doesn’t want Stiles to go into detail about masturbation, so he interrupts him, saying, “We’re going to get rid of him, Stiles. I promise. Then you can be with – with anyone... you want...”

“When your and Scott’s idiotic plan is finally working out, I’ll be old and grey and can’t even get it up anymore...”

“I’m sure the ladies are going to love that.” Derek’s lips quirk as if a smile tried to make its way to the gloomy surface.

“You must be exhausted. Go to sleep now. I promise, I won’t hurt you anymore. Ever.”

 

 

 

 

 

Derek’s soles hit the ground with a low thud. Behind him, the Stilinski house is lying in complete and utter darkness. Until ten minutes ago the living room and kitchen had been lit up but Stiles’ dad has since gone to bed as well, after checking in on his son and finding him safe and sound asleep, clothes strewn all over the floor, shoes thrown into a pile in the middle of the hallway like a fucking death trap.

Derek stares at the house and, from this angle, from the way the street lights hit his skin, his face looks distorted, like he’s somehow not right, but it might be an illusion, the neon light teasing the shadows on his face because when he turns back to the street, his face is smooth again, and devoid of expression.

And there in front of him, as expected, in-between parked cars on the side of the road, is his cousin, is _Malia_.

They look at each other for a second.

Then, Malia turns around, crosses the streets, jumps over a fence and is gone.

When she has disappeared into the darkness, Derek advances. He sniffs the air, waiting.

Listening.

Then he extends his right hand and opens the rusty mailbox that says _Stilinski_ on its side. He sticks his hand in and when it reappears, it’s clutching something.

Derek pulls the lid up again to close the box, then opens his fist, looks at it.

Sitting on his palm is several sheets of paper scrunched up into a tight ball, so white, it’s almost glowing in the darkness.

 

 

 

It takes Stiles almost ten minutes to remember what happened the day before.

He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning and the first thought that hits him is an image of Theo smiling at him, staring into his eyes, craning his neck in the most unhuman way imaginable and a shudder runs through his body.

God.

Thank you brain, for bringing it up before the first cup of coffee.

It’s only when he trudges into the bathroom to take a shower and is wondering about the fact that he actually slept well despite everything, despite having to get up after only four hours, and then wonders why his neck feels so fucking sore, that it hits him.

The night hadn’t ended after he’d climbed out of Theo’s car, fucking glad that Theo had stopped groping him all of a sudden and just driven him home.

There had been –

Stiles turns on the water and jumps, _fuck_ , way too cold but at least he’s awake now.

He swallows.

Awake and mortified.

His neck is throbbing.

Great. Looking fucking forward to another week of zipped-all-the-way-up-like-a-douchebag-Stiles.

God, had he really been kicking and screaming and sobbing like a three-year-old when Derek Hale had grabbed him, pushed him up against the wall?

What the fuck was the matter with him?

Derek wasn’t his enemy – Theo was.

Why was everything so goddamn twisted?

And then there was something about – he swallowed again – his mattress dipping down because Derek was sitting down next to him and – starting to rub his back.

Stiles had asked Derek Hale to rub his fucking back.

But he’d been tired and Derek had freaked him out and –

Stiles pushes everything away from him and, like that, manages to take his shower, using so much soap that his skin is still burning an hour later when he walks into the classroom.

The panic had been rising steadily in his throat since he slammed the front door closed and walked over to his Jeep, since he realized that Theo would know, he would fucking know, no matter the ridiculous amounts of aftershave Stiles had splashed into his face and, why not, his neck and down his back as well.

The girls in the front row scrunch up their noses when Stiles walks past their desks but his eyes are fixed on Theo even though he shouldn’t, he _knows_ that, for God's sake, but still can’t help it and Theo lifts his head, looks startled.

Then narrows his eyes.

He draws himself up in his chair and snaps the pencil he’s holding in his right hand, his right fist, clean in half.

“I think it’s working,” Scott whispers when Stiles sinks down into his seat, knees all weak and rubbery, “God, did you have an aftershave accident? I have a really sensitive nose, you know that right?”

Stiles still can’t say anything.

He’s fucking petrified without even really knowing why.

It’s not like the demonic force kicked him out of his own skin because he broke his pact, clawed him out of his body and dragged him down to hell or anything.

Technically, Theo can’t harm him but fear isn’t rational and Stiles is scared shitless.

When class is over, Theo is at his desk, quicker even than Scott would have thought possible because he flinches when Theo snarls, “ _Stiles_!”

He jerks his head, a stony expression on his face and Stiles shoves the books into his bag with trembling fingers.

“Stiles, relax. You don’t have to obey him, you’re _not_ his slave,” Scott mutters, holding Stiles back by grabbing his upper arm but Stiles just shakes it off with a nervous jerk.

Scott wouldn’t understand.

He just has to get this over with.

So he shuffles out the door behind Theo before the teacher is even done packing up – she just throws them a surprised look, going, “Mr. Raeken. Mr. Stilinski! What” – but they’re out the door before she can finish her sentence.

Stiles follows Theo down the hallway, his feet feeling numb. People are spilling out of their classrooms, then stop and stare at the strange pair, at least Stiles is _convinced_ they’re all looking at him, they _must_ perceive something strange is going on, must see how Stiles is scared and Theo is fucking livid.

They’re in the boys' locker room now and it's only the two of them again, no one else, just Stiles and Theo and images of Stiles and Theo in the two mirrors above the dirty white sinks.

Stiles backs up against the wall because Theo is clenching his fists, pretty face scrunched up in anger. He staring at the floor like he can’t even look Stiles in the eyes.

Like they’re married and Stiles just cheated on him.

It’s so fucking weird but Stiles _does_ feel guilty.

“I – I didn’t want him to – I couldn’t – he just came at me,” Stiles says and feels even dirtier. Because it’s not entirely true.

There was a certain point last night when Stiles _wanted_ Derek to come at him and be that only for the split second before the powers started acting up and sent Stiles spiraling into a panic mode. And _then_ he asked Derek to rub his back like a fucking pervert.

But Theo takes two swift steps towards him and smashes his fist into the wall next to Stiles’ face and Stiles jumps. He doesn’t have to look to the left to know that the tiles shattered around Theo’s hand, that blood is pooling on the floor below him already.

“I know, Stiles, I _fucking_ know that. _Fuck!_ ”

He pulls his hand back and stares down at it, like it’s not enough, like he wants to go ahead and do the same thing to Derek Hale’s head but he _can’t_.

Stiles wrecks his brain for something to say, fast, but can’t come up with anything so he has to stand there and watch as Theo lets his head snap back up and rake his eyes over Stiles’ body.

Getting ideas.

He puts his bloody hand onto Stiles’s shoulder and squeezes it with a gentleness Stiles wouldn't - quite frankly, no one would - have thought possible for a guy who just shattered his bones and split his skin when running his fist into a wall in anger.

But there it is, a soft squeeze, and it terrifies Stiles.

Because Theo has always been deadliest when he is gentle, is at his most dangerous when he's smiling, _everyone_ knows that.

It's psychopathic serial killer 101.

Theo pulls him flush against his chest with a jerk.

“So Derek took your scent off...,” he says softly, his cheek touching Stiles’, lips brushing over the shell of Stiles’ ear.

“Tell me how he did that... Tell me _everything_...”

Stiles swallows. His heart is pounding against his rib cage.

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

“Stiles,” a little more sharply, more determined, “ _Tell me_.”

“He, mh,” Stiles has to clear his throat before going on, he is hyper-aware of Theo’s body pressing into his, Theo’s chin resting on his shoulder.

“He grabbed me and, sort of – basically pushed me down, so I – I couldn’t move...”

Stiles can hear the door swing open out of the corner of his eye, see someone stop, startled, then back out of the room again, going, “Oops, sorry...”

“Go on,” Theo whispers and Stiles shifts uneasily. His shoulder blades hurt from being shoved against the tiles and Theo’s left hand – the one that’s not covered in blood – is doing _something_ down there, judging from the way it’s fidgeting in-between their bodies, tugging at the rim of his pants, it’s fucking distracting.

“And I sort of – freaked out, and, mh,” he stops because, holy shit, Theo’s hand just slipped into his pants and Stiles can feel his cool fingers pressing into his skin, creeping further south.

“And – then?”

“Er... he – he tried to – mh, like, kiss me – my neck, I – I guess... and, _Jesus_ ,” Stiles takes in a sharp breath because, yeah, that’s Theo’s hand wrapping around his limp penis.

“Derek Hale gave you a kiss – and what else?”

Stiles struggles to speak for a few moments because Theo Raeken is pressing against him, _clutching his freaking penis_.

Oh God, it’s happening, is all Stiles can think.

It’s happening but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, no, please, not now.

Then the thought that Derek might actually be able to hear him begging crosses his mind and he tries to stop, drains out even his own thoughts by saying, “I went to sleep and Derek just sort of – rubbed my back. To scent-mark me.”

“I see.”

Stiles stays rooted in place, body perfectly still, frozen, hardly breathing even.

When Theo starts moving his hand, he closes his eyes.

He knows that nothing will happen, he’s too fucking wound up, a complete nervous wreck but still, God, just the pressure of Theo’s hand on his dick makes him wish the ground would open and swallow him up.

Can you die of shame and discomfort?

Or, would the more accurate term here be – rape?

Theo puts his other hand on Stiles’ neck where the drying blood makes his fingers stick to Stiles’ skin. Of course.

Of course, Theo would also scent-mark him while trying to jerk him off.

Only, it’s not working.

Well, the scent-marking probably is but Theo’s hand is doing nothing.

Stiles is hyper-focused on his body, telling it to stay like that, to not move, to focus on the thick sensation of misery and hatred pooling in his stomach.

The thing is just – they stay there for a while and Theo is gently stroking him, running his hand up and down his penis and Stiles can feel it building up gradually, second after second.

First, he’s miserable and shaking.

Then, he’s miserable and trembling.

Now, he’s miserable and weirdly turned on and despising himself for it.

He can hear the fabric of his pants rustle with every movement of Theo’s hand and starts shaking his head slowly like,  _no, not here._

 _Not now_.

Starts panicking which, what the fuck is wrong with him, only seems to turn him on more.

Jerking off has always been kind of a stress reliever for Stiles and he always knew that couldn’t be good. Why on earth is his body wired that way?

An involuntary gasp escapes his mouth and his eyes widen in shock.

Then tears are welling up in his eyes and he can hear himself pleading, “Theo, please, don’t do that, please, not here.”

The whole thing becomes only more surreal when the door creaks open and Stiles just knows, _knows_ without having to look, who it is. That they've been here for over fifteen minutes now and that would have given Derek ample time to jump into his car, drive over to the school and just strut into the boys' locker room.

Which explains how he could be standing here now, broad-shouldered and silent and watching them.

And even though Stiles knows all that know, that Derek can hear him, that he will - _has to_ \- come running as soon as Stiles is in distress, he still can’t help it, he just can’t stop his thoughts from going,

_No please, please don’t, no, help me, God..._

Theo lifts his chin from Stiles shoulder and Stiles can feel his face move against his cheek.

The muscles around his mouth are relaxing into a smile.

The motherfucking son of a bitch is turning his head just enough to lock eyes with Derek Hale and give him one of his little serial killer smiles.

Luckily, the shock of someone entering, and then Derek of all people, makes Stiles go limp again but Theo is still stroking him for a few more seconds and Stiles is just standing there, holding on to the sinks that are on his left and right because if he doesn’t, if he lets go, his legs won’t be able to support him and he’ll just fold up on the floor like a fucking marionette cut from its strings.

Then Theo pulls his hand out of Stiles’ pants and Stiles lets out his breath, hadn’t even been aware that he was holding it.

“You can take my scent off of him again now, if you want, Derek,” Theo says who turns to face the man standing in the middle of the locker room now and, yes, oh God, it really _is_ Derek, Stiles had hoped, had been _praying_ for it to be Danny or Liam or anyone else, even Finstock.

“Take off my boyfriend’s scent again,” Theo says, this time without a smile and Stiles shudders at the way he says _boyfriend_ , that he even fucking says it at all.

“And remember that I’m the one who'll be taking him home today, and holding him and touching him until he comes undone in my arms."

And with that Theo just walks out the door.

It’s silent for a few heartbeats and Stiles just wants to disappear, or to tell Derek that he never meant for him to see this,  _hear_ this, wants to yell at him to just fucking stop looking at him like that.

But he can’t face him, it’s impossible, so Stiles just lets himself sink into a sitting position between the sinks, draws his legs up to his chest and hugs them, face buried between his arms.

Waiting for Scott to find him and tell Derek he shouldn’t even be here.

Derek walks up to him, doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t touch his neck either.

When Scott is there with Kira and they pull him into a standing position, Derek is gone.

 

 

Stiles is really trying to get a grasp, too, but today, it seems impossible.

To think that Theo made him – that he, Stiles, almost came in his own pants right in front of Derek Hale’s eyes and at the touch of another guy, too –

Stiles’ head snaps up and Scott blinks at him.

“Mh?”

Stiles shakes his head, forced down another bite of his hamburger.

Right, they’re in the cafeteria and Kira, Liam and Mason are shooting him worried glances across the table and Scott is trying to keep a conversation about – something going. Cars or video games. Stiles doesn’t know.

It’s lunch break and Theo is thankfully keeping his distance, apparently satisfied with what he managed to achieved again and Stiles can’t believe he just thought the problem with all of this, with why he’d been vomiting his guts out an hour earlier, was Derek Hale seeing him with another _guy_.

 _Another_ guy.

When it should be something like, Derek Hale seeing him so fucking close to the edge at all. It wasn’t right. Just like Scott should never have to see that. They’re all like brothers and it’s just – wrong.

Theo can do whatever but making someone watch was just – and Stiles pales a little when he realizes that it will always be like that from now on.

Theo will come on to him, Stiles will force himself to bear it but will call out in his mind for someone, something, to help him, and Derek will be there.

In school, outside of Stiles’ house.

In front of Malia’s house.

And because Derek’s a freaking werewolf he will be able to hear what’s going on inside, what Theo will be doing to Stiles, _with_ Stiles.

Oh God.

“Stiles.”

This time it’s Lydia’s voice.

She’s scrutinizing him coolly.

“You should go home.”

Stiles starts shaking his head but she cuts him short.

“You look like death, Stiles. _Go home_.”

So he does.

Fuck.

He thought he could deal with this but obviously he can’t.

He’s not feeling any better when he gets home.

He throws off his bag and jacket, then rushes into the bathroom to throw up the hamburger – shoving that down his throat had been a bad idea, Stiles knew it – and thinks he can’t go on like this.

It’s not possible.

It’s almost as bad as it used to be, back when.

Maybe worse because Stiles had already been damaged when it all began.

From the first time of having Theo as his playmate years ago, then, later from the multiple times they faced literal death.

Then the void.

And Allison.

He feels like he's been so fucking damaged when all of this began already and just doesn't have it in him anymore to face _this_.

Stiles goes straight to bed but despite being so sleep-deprived, he winds up just lying there on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how he did it last time.

How the fuck he managed to survive because, yes, children can develop crazy protective mechanisms and they must still be there in his brain, somewhere, somehow.


	20. NOT FOR NOTHING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mmh... steo almost all the way, I'd say
> 
> (sorry, sterek lovers, we're gettting there, I promise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I went a little overboard with this one - ha, I've said that far too many times now; hope you'll still enjoy reading despite all the weirdness

Theo does not keep his word.

He doesn’t take Stiles home that day, obviously, because Stiles drives himself home after lunch, skipping PE class and lacrosse practice, and he doesn’t show up later that day either to, what was that?

Hold Stiles and touch him until he comes undone in Theo’s arms?

It’s such a bizarre and old-fashioned thing to say that Stiles doesn’t know whether he should laugh or vomit.

But that’s just Theo, talking like he walked straight out of the 1970s – always the gentleman.

Gentleman psychopath – is that a thing?

Stiles gets out of bed around 5pm, looks at himself in the mirror and, yes, this is the lovely face of someone who’d been chewed up and spit out again.

So he decides that it won’t do.

He will not be moping around and wallowing in this feeling of brokenness, pitying himself, allowing himself to think that he got it worse than everyone else on the planet.

It’s simply not true, yes?

There’s worse, there’s always worse, always, is what he keeps telling himself.

“Get a grip already,” he tells mirror-Stiles, then goes downstairs, gulps down a glass of water and slides into his running shoes.

Puts on some music and goes for a jog in the woods, a short one because his feet still hurt from his excessive work-outs, but still.

Allows himself to get so absorbed in the music that he doesn’t even think about whether Derek Hale is lurking around here somewhere, pushes every single intrusive thought far away from him, one after the other, so there’s only this lingering, miserable feeling in his heart.

But that he can deal with.

See, the trick is to simply bear it, learn to live with it, and not allow it to attach itself to specific images or situations or people. To keep telling yourself that it’s just a feeling, no more and no less, and that reality isn’t in fact a black pit of agony and pain and grief and death. It’s just a feeling.

It’s hard at first of course because that’s what your brain wants to do, projection.

But when he’s home again, takes his second shower for the day, then dries himself off, even does his hair, sort of, and jumps down the stairs to prepare a nice dinner for himself and his dad no matter how little he feels like eating, Stiles thinks he defeated it – _himself_ – for the day.

Like he will be able to sleep later without wrecking his brain about this, today, about what he could have done differently and what Derek might be thinking of him right now and without worrying about the future, about what Theo will do to him tomorrow or the day after, or next week.

It’s almost funny, how struggling with the void and the aftermath of the nogitsune helped him prepare for this. That was when Stiles first realized that you can be more than one person at the same time and that feelings are not necessarily the truth, a knowledge that comes in quite handy right now.

So he can smile at his dad, smile and even really mean it, and they chat about the sheriff’s day at work, about baseball and lacrosse and about the upcoming exams.

Right, Stiles meant to study for that.

They do the dishes together and then Stiles goes upstairs and opens his textbooks.

He finds it difficult to concentrate but knows the reason for it, too, tries not to be too hard on himself.

It’s a result of the stress, can even be a result of his constant borderline depressive mood, so he tries to be proud of himself, of the fact that he’s at least trying.

Prepares himself a cup of tea, reads the history chapter for tomorrow.

And, yes, when he’s in bed an hour later he really is proud of himself because he started out feeling really shitty and now – not so much anymore.

So everything he did was helping him get through this, one little step after another, even though he didn’t believe in it at the time.

Okay.

Okay, Stiles can work with that.

 

 

When Stiles walks into the classroom the next day, he can’t help but roll his eyes at seeing Scott sit there by the window, face full of worry and looking so obviously uncomfortable that it’s almost funny, almost as if he’d been the one Theo had tried to jerk off yesterday in the locker room instead of Stiles.

“I’m fine, man,” Stiles is saying before Scott can even open his mouth.

“Really. I’m good.”

Scott turns his head a little to get a better look at Stiles, and Lydia who has been unloading books onto her table – why is she always carrying around five times as many books as necessary for class, what for exactly? – stops and throws him a side glance.

“You do look better today, Stiles. Your cheeks are, like, glowing – or are you running a fever?”

She frowns and turns to face him.

“Or wait – you’re not actually wearing make up?”

Arms akimbo, leaning forward a little to get a good look at Stiles’ cheeks and eyes, as if him scrutinizing his face in the mirror and then putting on foundation and blush were an actual possibility.

“What’s up with you guys, God. I just slept well, is all,” Stiles says defensively and pushes Lydia away by the shoulders.

“Honestly – I’m a lot better, like – yeah. No, I am. So just – drop it. Okay?”

“Stiles...,” Scott starts and he has this look on his face like he’s really sorry, and Stiles already knows what he wants to say.

“Don’t lie to us – it’s completely unnecessary. Not to mention, futile,” because Lydia is pressing her palm against Stiles’ forehead and when Stiles manages to shake her off she tries to grab his wrist and feel for his pulse, “so... how are you _really_? Come on, hit us. We can take it. I promise.”

“It’s fine, Scott. Really, I’m not lying.”

He isn’t and knows that Scott can tell he isn’t even though he still doesn’t seem to believe him, eyes him warily.

“So... okay, then, since you’re obviously not going to say it, I’ll do it before the – the abomination walks in here and I’m gonna be occupied with not trying to murder him. Er... Derek – he said that yesterday, Theo tried to-”

“I think I might be into him,” Stiles pipes up and Scott’s jaws shut with an audible click.

He and Lydia are staring at him, eyes wide with surprise, an odd mixture of amusement and shock in their faces and it’s a really funny sight, to watch them being torn between _ha ha, very funny_ and _have you lost your freaking mind?_

“Come again?” Lydia says and her voice is shrill.

“I – think I might be sort of... into Theo,” Stiles repeats, and he blushes, of course he does because – why, for fuck’s sake, would he even be saying something like this?

He certainly didn’t think it through but it’s not the worst lie – or plan – he ever came up with, yes?

And if he can get Scott and Lydia to believe him, they would have to get off his back and accept his choices because that’s what friends do.

And maybe Stiles could believe it himself.

“You’re lying,” Scott says and of course he would say that.

“I’m just – it’s not easy for me to say this, ok?”

And that early in the morning, too, when Stiles usually takes until 10 a.m. to be even half awake.

He doesn’t even speak before 8 a.m., for God’s sake.

“It’s – I’ve always been – into guys, too,” he mumbles, cheeks very red now and Lydia, thankfully, goes, “I knew it! I knew it! I was right, I was right – didn’t I tell you, Scott? That Stiles is swinging both ways?”

“Stiles is swinging both ways?” Danny is saying now. He’s in the row behind them and just dropped the magazine he was reading onto his desk, leans forward over it to better hear what they’re saying.

“Uhm. Yeah. I kind of – always have...,” Stiles mutters and tries not to meet Scott’s eyes who has this awful expression on his face like Stiles has been lying to him.

Like he could have been into him without telling him and their whole best buddy thing had been a big fat lie.

“I sort of – had a crush on this one guy when I was only like eight or nine.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything. I had a guy crush on this actor,” Scott is saying now like he’s trying to convince himself that Stiles doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Remember? The dude who played Thomas in _The Maze Runner..._ ”

“Oh yeah, he’s hot,” Lydia says.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m gay, Stiles.”

“I didn’t say I was gay. I said, I was – more like-”

“Bisexual,” Lydia says and she has this satisfied smirk on her face that she always gets when she is right and everyone else is wrong. “Or, possibly pansexual. Stiles, would you say you’re more bi or pan?”

“Is that why you asked me if you can borrow my spare jersey? Because if you spent the afternoon sniffing it, I swear-”

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs.

“No, Danny, that’s not why I borrowed your shirt. I simply forgot mine. Because I’m extraordinarily disorganized. Okay?”

He finally drops his bag down onto the floor, flops into his chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sott says and he looks disappointed. _Hurt_ almost.

“I wasn’t really – I wasn’t sure, ok? Besides, do you see many people discussing their sexual orientation while they’re still in high school?”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Danny starts but Stiles goes, “Shut up, Danny. It’s just not easy, ok? To find out you’re not wired the same way everyone else is wired.”

“Well, I’m-”

“No one wants to hear it, Danny!”

Danny lifts his eyebrows.

“Suit yourself. But don’t come running to me later when you have questions about the – _how’_ s. And the where’s.”

Oh, God.

Stiles closes his eyes and when he opens them again he wishes he hadn’t because Theo chooses this exact moment to strut into the classroom, trademark nonchalant expression on his face. He’s wearing white sneakers and a black sweater and his skin is so flawless and hair perfect, it’s almost not fair.

He nods hello to Scott, of course he would, Theo just likes pissing off people like that, puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder briefly when he passes by his table on his way to the back row.

Apparently Danny has too many questions to be miffed at Stiles because he leans forward again and whispers, “You and Raeken – are you – are you two, like – a _thing_?”

Stiles nods his head, ignoring that sick feeling that starts pooling in his stomach again.

“Damn, Stiles. You managed to get the hottest boy in this whole damn school. Total respect.”

Danny leans back again but continues to throw Stiles admiring glances.

“This is _not_ true,” Scott says calmly. “You’re exuding vibes of anxiety whenever he’s near. Hell, I can smell your stress levels rise when we’re just _talking_ about him.”

“Scott, _please_... aren’t you... glad – about this? Makes it so much – easier, okay?”

“If you can really tell yourself you’re into him – if you really feel even _remotely_ sexually attracted to this creep – then your condition is worse than I ever thought it could be. It’s fucking Stockholm syndrome is what it is, Stiles!”

Stiles’ heart starts beating faster because, yeah, he’s getting angry at Scott.

And at the fact that Scott knows him just too well.

That he’s making this so hard for him, Stiles, when everything could be easy. When he just wants Scott to be happy, to not worry about something he can’t change anyway.

“I get it, Scott,” he’s forcing himself to say, “and – and you’re right, ok? Maybe it’s not completely healthy but – you heard what Danny said. Just look at – at Theo.”

Stiles is uncomfortably aware of the fact that if Theo hasn’t been listening in – which he probably has anyway – by now at least he’s certainly all ears and smirks.

“He’s – really... _good looking_ , like, ridiculously so, okay, and that’s not a matter of whether you’re a guy or a girl – it’s a matter of whether you’re blind or not.”

It’s almost surprising for Stiles to hear himself say it out loud because there is a certain truth to it and he never really thought about looking at it from this angle before.

If Lucifer were an old creep trying to grope him on a daily basis, he would certainly be worse off. Right?

He could have taken Finstock’s body, for instance. Or, holy God, Gerard Argent’s.

Just saying.

But objectively speaking, there’s really nothing to be disgusted about when it comes to his body.

Good, that’s good.

Hold on to that thought, Stiles.

It’s not a crazy thing to think at all.

Ignore the fact that the way he smiles at you still makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

Scott is looking over his shoulder and Stiles can tell that he’s almost shaking with anger. Not necessary for Stiles to turn in his seat and see his best friend’s eyes glow red to tip him off.

Scott has locked eyes with Theo and is flashing his alpha colors at him in the middle of the history classroom.

Danny in the seat behind Scott is lifting his eyebrows at him.

Theo for his part is leaning back in his chair in the last row, edges of his lips pulling slowly up into an arrogant smirk and Scott only lets his eyes fade back to brown when Lydia hisses, “Scott!!”

Then he turns back and gloomily stares at his history book without opening it.

Like he’s thinking.

Stiles feels horrible but it has to be like that.

He has to do this.

 

 

Thinking about how attractive Theo is despite the fact that his smug face means nothing but pain and fear to Stiles might just be the solution, the plot twist, so don’t let it go.

Hold on to it, tell yourself – yes, tell yourself it’s okay.

That you’re lucky, even.

That almost every girl in this goddamn Scott wants to date Theo, judging from the way they’re undressing him with their eyes and are almost fucking _drooling_ when he walks by and yet, there he goes, boxing _you_ in in the locker rooms and shoving his hand down your pants.

Isn’t that just – just great.

Then, when they’re changing rooms for biology, Scott goes ahead and ruins it by saying, “Derek is handsome.”

He looks at Stiles coolly and Stiles can’t help but stare back with a puzzled look on his face.

“What do you-”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Stiles. Since we’re being honest here.”

Stiles presses his lips together, walks a little faster.

“So you want to tell me that Derek’s not the guy you used to have a crush on.”

Stiles stops short and turns to face Scott.

“Oh, my God, will you just drop it. Maybe or maybe not, that was like years ago so I don’t remember, okay?”

“You do remember.”

“Why would that even matter?”

“Because now it’s making a lot of sense how you would always get super nervous around Derek. Like – more than usual, even for you.”

Stiles snorts.

“Even for me. Because I’m just sooo socially awkward and wound up all the time,” Stiles says heatedly and very much not in favor of his argument accidentally and very painfully slams his shoulder into the door frame on his way out.

“Don’t dodge the question, Stiles.”

“Hell, yeah, of course I get nervous around the guy. Have you looked at him for a second? Dude’s _creepy_ , is what I mean, he has the evil eye, I swear. And he’s been shoving my face into steering wheels or pushing me up against walls and fences and whatnot ever since we met him and, oh, by the way, for a good portion of that first year I used to think he was a _murderer_ and a creepy monster who was out to get us. So excuse the fuck out of me if I’m still a little nervous around the guy. It’s not like – he lightens the mood whenever he enters a room. The guy’s angry, angry and depressing, is what I’m saying. In case you didn’t catch that.”

Stiles is panting and he just knows that these annoying red spots are appearing on his cheeks again but Scott is just standing there and, absolutely inexplicably, _smiling_.

“Oh, my God. You like Derek.”

“What? Hello! Scott, have you been listening to me? Were you just in a brain coma?”

Scott’s smile widens.

They’re still in front of the lockers downstairs, the hallway is empty and they’re definitely running late for biology and, to Stiles’ annoyance, Scott doesn’t appear to be wanting to drop the subject any time soon.

“You have a crush on Derek Hale. How could I not have seen that.”

“Er, let me see – because I clearly _don’t_? What the fuck is wrong with you, Scott? Seriously, what the literal fuck-”

“Oh, maybe you haven’t really been aware of it but you certainly do. Now we only have to find out what level of crush we’re talking about here.”

Un-fucking-believable.

“Are we talking, level one, light bro crush because Derek is – well, Derek. Or, level five,” and Scott pauses, looks at Stiles with a more serious expression on his face, “about to be seriously head over heels.”

Stiles cheeks are starting to feel really hot and he’s at a loss for words for a second there.

He knows his heart just skipped a beat, what he fucking doesn’t know is _why_.

Yeah, yeah, Derek Hale is crazily attractive and any girl or guy denying that is just a big fat liar and all that crap. And yeah, Stiles has been more attracted to other guys than your regular heterosexual male but it’s a spectrum, okay?

And Stiles always considered himself to be on the heterosexual end of it but maybe a _little_ bit, like, _an inch_ closer to the middle than, say – Arnold Schwarzenegger or something. He’s never really been a manly man either but gender identity has nothing whatsoever to with whom you find sexually attractive. So maybe Schwarzenegger isn’t a good example because, really, how could Stiles tell what the guy does or doesn’t dig.

So yeah, yeah, Derek’s hot, of fucking course he is, Stiles would be an idiot to deny that, and that broody, hurt thing he has going on there? Please. The man is gorgeous.

 _Oh_ , Stiles is thinking.

_Oh, fuck._

“Okay,” Stiles mutters and his shoulders slouch. “Okay, fine. Yes. Yes, Derek was the guy I used to have a crush on, like, the faintest of crushes, only for a very brief period of time before I met Lydia – are you happy now? But I was really young then and he was just – And if you _must_ know, I’ve always been sort of attracted to hot guys as well as hot girls but I favor girls, alright?”

Scott’s eyebrows slowly go up and Stiles wonders whatever happened to, _But_ _Stiles, you don’t know what you’re talking about._

“And right now, I’d prefer to be thinking about – him. Theo, I mean. Ok? It just – it makes it easier.”

He looks down at his sneakers adding, “because if Derek didn’t tell you, after talking to me in the locker room for ten seconds and smashing his fist into the wall, Theo stuck his hand down my pants. And while I don’t appreciate the timing, I prefer to be – okay with it.”

Scott is shaking his head.

“That’s so sick, Stiles. Sick and twisted.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know that,” Stiles grits out. “It’s just – can’t be changed and what I said earlier, about – about Theo, I – think I might be,” Stiles lifts his head, braces himself for the lie, or, maybe it isn’t a lie but just an idea that’s starting to turn into – _something_?

Something real maybe.

“I think I might be falling for Theo.”

Scott’s expression hardens again.

“ _Falling for_ Theo?  What the – do you even know what that means? Stiles, you want to tell me you’re starting to develop _romantic_ _feelings_ for the monster that tortured you – literally _tortured_ you until you passed out?”

“Yeah.”

“And that you feel no regret whatsoever that if you stay with Theo, you can never be with Derek. Or anyone else.”

Stiles feels a pang at Scott’s words.

“No.”

“So if, say – Derek disappeared tomorrow, if he moved away and you were to never see him again ever, you wouldn’t miss him, you wouldn’t feel regret.”

Stiles presses his lips together and Scott goes, “Ha! Regret. I _knew_ it.”

“No, Scott, you don’t understand. Derek’s our friend, he’s my friend, okay? Of course, I’d be unhappy – I’d miss him. But so would you. We’d all miss him and it would really suck to lose him. It sucked when he went to Mexico with Braeden and never even looked back once like – like we were nothing to him. But that’s it. There’s nothing else going on between Derek Hale and me.”

Scott lets out a sigh and they start walking down the hallway and towards the stairs.

“Just fyi, Stiles – I didn’t think it sucked when Derek went away with Braeden. He had his reasons and I knew he’d come back. Besides, it was only for two months. I didn’t miss him but if _you_ did – if you _really did_ – that should make you think.”

 

 

 

Ah, great, more nerve-wracking, maddeningly complicated emotional crap to think about.

Well, thanks so fucking much, Scott.

And there he’d been thinking he had it all sorted out. All his feelings stored neatly where they belonged, anger to anger, hatred to hatred, affection to affection. Friendship to friendship.

And then his best friend comes along like the diabolic kid in kindergarden who, after Stiles had meticulously sorted all the Lego pieces according to color, just tipped over the box and cackled maniacally and pointed at him.

Come to think of it, that kid _was_ Scott.

Stiles should have known.

And whatever drove him to come out with half the truth and half a lie about his sexuality on a Friday morning before history.

What’s more, before his second coffee, for God’s sake.

“Insanity,” Stiles is muttering to himself. “In-fucking-sanity...”

“Don’t be so hard on you, Stiles. A little weird maybe but insane? I hardly think so.”

It’s Theo who is tapping his fingertips onto the table top, an inch away from where Stiles dropped his forehead onto his arms and is resisting the urge to repeatedly smack it onto the table.

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you,” Scott says coolly from where he’s sitting next to Stiles and puts his hand between Stiles’ shoulder blades.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser, Scott,” Theo says with a smile.

“Stiles, did you think about what movie you’d like to see?”

Stiles, forehead still on his arms is shaking his head no.

“Stiles is coming over to my house today,” Scott says and Stiles knows he’s staring Theo down right now. He can feel Scott’s palm pressing into his back with a little more strength than necessary. Yes, definitely marking his territory.

Then he feels a hand in his neck and it’s not Scott’s, definitely not, it’s smaller and softer, and now Scott is rubbing his back and, nope, getting too weird, Stiles can’t do it.

He lets his head snap up from the table and shoots up from his seat, ignoring the momentary dizziness when his blood rushes down into his legs.

“I don’t feel like a movie. Maybe – I don’t know, Burger King? And, yeah, er... video games, Scott? We do have that test coming up, I need to study...”

Scott goes, “Neat. You can have dinner with us,” and Theo is rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be such a nerd, Stiles. If that’s the reason you can’t make time for me, I can just put everything you need to know into that small brain of yours. I can give you my own memories, if you want. 1876, Custer’s Last Stand? That sucker is ill-named but definitely worth a look. Even though I know from experience that it just weirds teachers out... I guess the truth is simply too scary for most people. Well, unless – you don’t want me to come over today?”

Theo isn’t smiling. He’s just watching Stiles.

And so is Scott.

“Yeah, Stiles. Maybe you don’t want Theo to come over at all? Could there be a reason why you’d rather he didn’t?”

And it’s only then that Stiles remembers his brand new strategy.

God, what a moron he is.

Scott had him so confused with Derek momentarily that Stiles completely forgot his lie and the fact that he had decided to believe it himself, so he quickly goes, “No. No there isn’t. In fact, er...”

_Oh God, please help me pull this off?_

He looks down, and says, slowly, “Theo, can you come over tomorrow? Then we’d have all day.”

And because that wasn’t really convincing, he takes a step towards Theo, meaning to kiss him but then can’t get himself to do it, so he just touches his hand lightly.

When he sees the angry expression on Scott’s face, however, Stiles isn’t sure what the fuck he’s doing there. If he can’t convince Scott no matter what he does, he’s currently just hurting his best friend. So he quickly pulls back his hand, takes a step away from him again.

Theo who has been watching Stiles’ changing facial expressions looks intrigued, like Stiles is being ridiculously entertaining this Friday morning. And probably because he discovered the combined pleasure of making Stiles’ heart beat faster while simultaneously pissing Scott off, he takes Stiles’ hand – puts his thumb lightly against Stiles’ right palm, his fingertips just barely touching the back of Stiles’ hand – and leans in, cheek brushing against Stiles’ and it’s funny how Theo has to rise to his toes to do that.

“That’s going be our third date. Looking forward to it.”

And with these words hanging in the air he turns around and struts out of the classroom, probably to sit in the cafeteria and have lunch all by himself like every day while teenage girls take a seat at his table to stare at him and secretly take photos with their smartphones and hoping that he’ll notice that they’ve been working out or that they got a new haircut. Even though the whole school is aware of the fact that Theo Raeken seems to have something going on with that weird kid Stilinski, the rumors just somehow seem to be making Theo even more attractive. Definitely more unreachable.

God, teenage girls are so screwed up.

Stiles is still frowning about Theo’s choice of words when Danny says, “Did I just hear third date? So it’s going to be a big night, mh? Who would have thought...”

Big night?

Why would that be a big night?

And does being kidnapped and get tortured until you pass out, and then, sometime later, eating at McDonald’s really count as a first and second date?

“What did he – oh. _Jesus_ Christ...”

Theo didn’t mean – sex, did he?

“You think he meant...?”

“No idea, man,” Scott says dryly. “Could be sex, could be sawing some innocent guy’s limbs off, could be anything. He’s one mysterious son of a bitch.”

“Third date means sex,” Danny is saying from behind them. “And today’s cheeseburgers in the cafeteria, so... better hurry up.”

“Sex?” Stiles is saying and almost tripping over his own legs because he’s walking and simultaneously looking at Scott who, for some reason, refuses to contribute anything to the conversation.

“Who knew that third date means sex?”

“Because it doesn’t.”

That’s Kira who’s catching up with them.

“I mean, it’s not like you have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Stiles.”

So they’re sitting down with their burgers – really the only edible thing on the menu here which is why four sophomores are currently fighting over who gets the last one and who has to put up with lunch option number two, rice stew, brussels sprouts and, for some reason, one half of a peach – and Stiles finds himself one more time too agitated to eat.

But he knows he really should so he picks up his burger – a kid sitting across from them at a table is glowering at him while mushing his rice into an even more disgusting pulp – and, guiltily, takes a first bite. Chews and swallows. Takes a second one.

“So you’re going through with this,” Scott says who for whatever reason is the only one in the whole cafeteria who actually likes the stew, is usually even looking forward to having it, so he’s sitting next to Stiles, trying to look determined and serious while shoveling rice into his mouth in-between words which makes a hilarious picture and if Stiles weren’t so tense right now he’d crack a few jokes about Scott’s disgusting taste.

“You’re really going to do this whole...” Scott is gesturing around with his fork and Stiles shrugs.

“Yeah.”

Scott nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Then they’re eating in silence and listening to the others chatting.

 

 

“Mason? Er... a word?”

“Mh? Yeah, sure, Stiles. No, it’s fine, Liam, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

They watch Liam, Scott and the others turn the corner and the hallway empty slowly as students start disappearing into different classrooms.

When there’s no one in earshot anymore, Mason turns to him, looks at him expectantly and Stiles doesn’t know how to start.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Uhm, you know what... er, never mind..”

And he wants to turn around and flee the scene but Mason grabs him by the upper arm.

“Stiles, come on – what is it? I won’t judge – promise.”

Stiles bites his lips.

“Er... so... you know that – how... Er. Theo.”

Mason blinks.

“You’re with Theo now, yeah. I got that.”

Stiles gives him a curt nod.

“Ok, yeah. So you got that.”

“Ahem... yeah, it would have been pretty hard not to, don’t you think? Considering that we haven’t been talking about anything else for the past two weeks.”

“Right. And... so, he wants to come over tomorrow and I – think, he might,” Stiles takes a deep breath. Why on earth is this so hard?

“And it might get – physical.”

“Physical.” Mason tilts his head, blinks again. “You mean what people in 2016 would refer to as sex.”

“... yeah.”

“And – you have questions about that.”

Stiles nods, looks to the ground.

“About how to – to do it,” he clears his throat, “you know, when – when another guy - er... you know?”

“Ha, why didn’t you just say so? Gosh, Stiles, you just scared the hell out of me. I thought – doesn’t matter now. Okay, yeah, I’ll tell you whatever I know.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and dares to lift his head again.

Wow, talking about awkward.

But he’d rather have that conversation here with Mason than with Theo. Or not at all and just let Theo surprise him.

No, that’s definitely not an option.

“You might want to talk with Danny about that though. He’s had a couple of boyfriends. Er – I only ever got to second base. Besides – you can always google, right?”

“I,” Stiles clears his throat, “I just thought you had like, a few tips for me. Su-suggestions. Or something.”

God, what is he even doing here.

Mason shrugs.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s get together in the library at 3, ok? But – are you sure you want to do this? Because if you don’t, it’s sort of like – rape. You know.”

Stiles shrugs again.

Somehow he can’t seem to be able to bring out more than half sentences and awkward jerks of the head.

“Stiles? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard. Thanks. No, I – I think I want to do this. I mean, I will – want to do this, anyway. So...”

Mason lifts his eyebrows.

“Wow, you sound convinced. Let’s talk later, ok?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Stiles watches Mason hurry down the corridor and can’t help but shake his head at himself.

Is he doing the right thing here?

No.

No, definitely not.

But he made a choice and picked the best out of a lot of different worst case scenarios.

So, yeah.

He can do this.

Besides – it’s not like there aren’t a few things he hadn’t always been curious about.

 

 

“So first of all – always use a condom.”

Ok, this was definitely going to be exactly as awkward and horrible as Stiles thought it would be.

They’re sitting next to each other in the library and while other students do homework and scroll through Tumblr on their laptops, Mason is giving Stiles a lesson in sex ed.

“But Theo’s like – supernatural. Can they even get STDs?”

Mason thinks about that for a second, then shakes his head.

“Probably not. Lucky bastards. But that’s not the only reason for using a condom.”

“Mh.”

Please don't say it.

“You see, that kind of sex can get really-”

“Alright, alright. I – yeah. I can imagine it.”

“I’m not sure if you can,” Mason says with a grin.

“You see, when you stick your penis into another man’s or woman’s butt-”

“Alright, enough,” Stiles hisses, “God. I’m not sure I can deal with R-rated conversations right now.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m having fun,” Mason says. “But seriously, Stiles. If you can’t even bear the idea of having another dude stick his thing up your ass – how exactly are you going to, like – actually do it?”

Yeah.

Yeah, that seems to be the point here.

“God, you’re such a pessimist...”

“Stiles.”

Stiles is staring at his hands. Somehow he can’t bear this look on people’s faces as of recent – this expression of worry and sadness.

“You don’t want to do this. Am I right?”

Stiles shrugs.

There is a short pause during which Mason scrutinizes his face, as if wanting to assess just how reckless with his own body and stupid in general Stiles really is.

“God, this is so fucked up. How you basically sold yourself to protect us. By the way – has anyone ever thanked you for that yet?”

Stiles looks up in surprise.

“Huh?”

“I mean, like – thanked you for basically sacrificing yourself. He can’t harm us now, right?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I don’t want to act like I’m the big martyr. It was self-preservation, first and foremost. I think, I kinda prefer the concept of butt sex to physical torture.”

Mason gives him a shake of the head.

“Jeez... still. This is some tough shit.”

Another shrug from Stiles.

Yeah, it sort of is, isn’t it.

“So, given that you’re probably gonna have to do this and, let’s just assume you won’t be able to wriggle out of it this weekend – er... you always want to pay attention to hygiene. And you want to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare... myself?”

A confused blink.

“You know – stretch yourself out.”

The corner of Stiles mouth quiver, like he’s not sure whether this is a joke or not.

“Because in case you lack the imagination, it usually hurts to press – big things into small holes. Guy or girl, I don’t think there’s that much of a difference, especially when you’re not exactly turned on.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say.

Malia never seemed like she was hurting but then, as a were-coyote, she’d be in heat once a month and it would usually be enough to just look at her to get her going. So the only thing Stiles ever had to do was to always have a condom handy.

The dream, right?

“And because I’m probably right in assuming that you’re not prepared for this even a little bit, you can have this.”

Mason rummages around in his bad, then takes something out and discreetly slides it across the table. It looks like hand lotion but when Stiles picks it up and reads the label it turns out to be something else entirely. Stiles cheeks redden and, God, why does he feel so – mortified? He’s not a teenager – wait, he is.

Still.

Isn’t it ridiculous to not be able to discuss something natural and basic like this without feeling awkward and sort of deviant? Plus, aren’t guys supposed to be talking about this, like, all the time? So what’s the big deal? Why is he sitting here, blushing like the proverbial virgin?

“Spear mint?”

Mason shrugs.

“Why not?”

“You just carry this around in your pocket?”

“Ahem. You’re welcome. And as I said – better safe than sorry.”

Stiles nods, swallows.

Lets the tube of lube glide into the right pocket of his sweater where it nudges against his hips, seems to become heavier and heavier almost like it’s going to pull Stiles down with it as soon as he’s going to try and get up.

“So, yeah... thanks, Mason. That was – something. Thanks.”

Mason gives him a nod and an encouraging smile.

“If you want to talk, you have my number. And... I’m sorry, man. I really am. Liam and I’ve been talking and – we both wish we could do something for you. To – spare you, you know.”

“Well. Thanks but. Yeah. You can’t,” Stiles says, and, because he can’t bear this fucking atmosphere like it’s his last goddamn supper he, completely awkwardly, gives Mason finger guns which makes Mason screw his face into a weird mixture of a laugh and pitying frown.

“Yeah. We can’t. So, I just hope he won’t hurt you so bad. So... see ya.”

Stiles jerks his head goodbye and watches Mason walk away from him and turn around before pulling the library door open, and give him one last sorrowful look which makes Stiles so sad and guilty that he doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the door hard like he’s waiting for it to move closer to him, somehow.

God, this has to stop.

He can’t bear it, the way he’s making every single one of his friends miserable and have them walking around looking like hurt puppies, like Stiles has terminal cancer (which, by the way, Theo would never let him have so – yay, him?). Liam and Mason should be worrying over grades (Liam in particular, from what Stiles has heard) and crushing on boys and girls, Scott should finally be allowed to relax again and give Kira his undivided attention, Malia was already in way too fucking deep and Stiles knew, just knew, that she would get hurt badly before all of this was over.

And Derek... well.

He doesn’t want to think about Derek right now.

About how what Stiles is doing with Theo is somehow the icing on the horrible cake of emotional torture and helplessness that is Derek Hale’s life.

He can’t think about that right now because it would be the last fucking straw. It would make Stiles do something reckless – like actually ask Theo to take him away, just so his friends could one day be happy again. Which would be complete and utter bullshit, given that the aftermath of losing someone, and to the living and breathing devil no less, might just last a lifetime. None of them has really ever gotten over Allison and Stiles doubts that they ever really will.

So, no.

No rushing into heroic self-sacrifice to gloss over how scared he is, and how sorry.

For all of this.

So he sticks his hand in his pocket and starts fingering the cool tube, squishing the lube around in it by squeezing it between his thumb and index finger which is a weird and strangely soothing sensation.

Fuck this.

The best possible solution would really be to somehow, _somehow_ work the fucking magic and develop feelings for Theo and as soon as everyone got to see how _happy_ they are, they’d have to fucking let go of this empathic tearing-themselves-apart-over-Stiles’-misery crap.

Maybe Stile can somehow Stockholm-syndrome himself.

Or he’ll just have to learn how to become the most flawless and cold-blooded fucking actor in the history of the universe.

 

 

 _I just hope he won’t hurt you so bad_ is a sentence that all of a sudden makes a lot of sense when Stiles looks at his Youporn search results.

Ok, so it’s not like he never clicked on a video labeled _gay_ or _anal_ or _toys_ or _tentacle_.

He’s the kid who dragged Scott out into the woods one night to find a goddamn corpse before the police would, just so they could have a good long look at it and feel creeped out, for God’s sake, enjoy the pleasure of gagging and whispering ‘ _Gross’_ to each other.

So, yeah, Stiles had been curious.

And he’d never admitted this to anyone – never would, probably, because he’d die on the spot from humiliation – he’s always wondered what it would feel like to have – his prostate _stimulated_.

But just the way that sounds, right?

You don’t just go ahead as a straight dude who’s been having sex for only a few months and tell your teenage girlfriend to please, stimulate my prostate. And then he’d have to hand her a toy and face the horrified expression on her face.

Besides, Stiles can’t see a way _anyone_ could do this, really, no matter what age. There’s just some lines that people don’t like crossing, not even in their heads.

Homo and hetero just don’t mingle.

It’s like the fucking apartheid and Stiles can’t shake the idea that this human obsession with clear-cut categories and neatly stored _everything_ might just have something to do with racism and lynch mobs as well as with homophobia and this fear of people who are bi or pan or trans or whatever, so not just plain wrong according to hateful masses but completely and utterly undefinable. Like you walk up to them and the minute they catch you doing something out of the ordinary, like for instance wearing a girl’s dress with what’s clearly boy features in your face, you become their personal Moby-Dick that they vow to loathe and make miserable until all eternity. Maybe it’s the only way that people can still think of themselves as some kind of old-age heroes.

Fighting for what’s right, for order in the world, even though they work a job they hate and envy their neighbors.

And why does it even have to make sense in their heads what Stiles like? For him, hypothetically, in his head, it’s very simple.

What makes it difficult is the constant fear of how people are going to react, what they’re going to think of him and in how many different ways they’re going to find him repulsive. The idea of this is so strong, so intrusive, that Stiles can’t even really experiment in the privacy of his own bedroom.

He did it once though.

Turned on so much by God knows what that he felt like simply jerking off like always wouldn’t be enough, Stiles worked a small vibrator into his butt. Some guys had deposited the thing in his locker as a practical joke and when it came tumbling out and almost broke into pieces of purple plastic on the floor Stiles had laughed and played along by acting all caught and mortified. And, because he knew these assholes didn’t expect him to, he’d stuffed the thing into his bag, told the guys he’d throw it out rather than give it back to them so they could smuggle it back into whoever’s big sister’s nightstand they had stolen it out of.

Then forgotten about it.

Found it a few days later scrunched in-between the pages of his Physics textbook (and God, that would have been a whole new level of humiliating), turned it on and off again (because of course there were batteries in it) and smiled doofily at the sound. Put it into his own nightstand because he figured it might come in handy with the ladies one day.

So this one afternoon he locked his door and, without really knowing why, closed the blinds (which is like a bat signal to the neighbors that he’s doing something forbidden but Stiles of course was completely oblivious of that), dug the vibrator out from under crayons and comic books and a half eaten box of cookies and looked at it for about five minutes while turning it on and off again.

Then opened his belt and unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down to his knees, bent forwards and just went for it.

And it had been – weird. Hadn’t felt good at first at all.

As a matter of fact, it had simply felt plain wrong but he still started stroking himself and, after a while there, pleasurable sensations started pooling in the pit of his stomach and the weirdness of it all only seemed to contribute to it, made it build up so high that Stiles saw stars in front of his eyes when he finally came all over the floor.

It wound up to be the strangest orgasm Stiles has ever had (and that includes that one time Malia refused to put down her pizza or turn off _Dexter_ ) and he felt sort of ashamed of how much it had turned him on and how he couldn’t stop thinking about it for several days afterwards.

So he shoved the vibrator into the back corner of the drawer and decided to forget about it.

Sure, he could have thrown it out.

But he didn’t.

That was three years ago and, truth is, Stiles even forgot that he still has that thing. Now, of course, on watching a buff dude with broad shoulders get brutally butt-fucked – butt-raped would probably be the more accurate term – from in-between his fingers behind which he’s hiding because, man, that looks like it fucking _hurts_ , his thoughts return to the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Of course, porn isn’t really a good indicator of how this is going to go down – at least, Stiles sure to God hopes it isn’t, _Jesus_ Christ – but Mason is probably right, it is vital to not go into this unprepared.

So, considering what he plans on doing – and what will probably happen, plans or no plans – he should give it another try.

So he sighs and closes the website, gets up and walks over to his nightstand, dives into the bottom drawer and there it is, glossy purple and just looking plain _obscene_. He flicks it on and, yeah, even the battery is still good.

Turns it off.

Then locks his door and checks whether his curtains are completely closed, just in case.

The only thing Stiles gets out of what follows is the horrifying conviction that there is no question of whether Theo is going to hurt him or not. When he did this before this one time, he didn’t really pay attention as to how deep he put it in, he was more focused on the sensation of having something press against his entrance and what that did to his erection.

Now though.

Bending over and, without being even faintly aroused, pushing the vibrator inside an inch, he can only reach one certain and slightly terrifying conclusion.

It will fucking hurt like hell, it already does when Stiles tries to work in more than the tip and, holy God, how he’s supposed to bear another guy shoving his penis in there, he has no fucking clue. What’s more, in and out, repeatedly.

And then to enjoy it?

The idea is just insane.

Stiles drops the vibrator onto the carpet and then just sits there on his knees, pants down, and stares blankly ahead.

 

 

When he walks into Derek’s apartment Stiles still hasn’t fully recovered and, what’s even worse, hasn’t even gotten the chance to try again and maybe jerk off doing it to at least simultaneously give himself a pleasurable sensation and see what that does to the pain. He’d heard Scott drop his bike down on the front lawn and had just had enough time to kick the vibrator under his bed and unlock his door before his best friend came barging in and announced that they were having dinner at Derek’s, just the three of them.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Scott then and he’s doing it again now because Scott pats Derek on the shoulder and says, “Looking good man. Have you been working out even more recently?”

Stiles has been pretty clear about not wanting to see Derek – or anyone, really – but the fact that Scott just turned their Halo night into a dinner and movie at Derek’s loft night is just – suspicious to say the least.

And, yes, his loft is big and expensive and expensively furnished and extremely neat and clean looking, if not to say sterile, and, yes, Derek is wearing tight jeans and a black shirt and has these deep-set eyes that have a completely undefinable color, it’s like the greenish and bluish and yellowish shades are moving around when Stiles is looking at them for too long.

Yes, the man is gorgeous.

But it’s not like Stiles hasn’t known this before.

Derek is handsome but this handsomeness is in no way at all any of Stiles’ business. It has nothing whatsoever to do with him. He may look at the man and marvel at how his face looks like it’s been chiseled out of a block of marble and simultaneously so fucking – _alive_ , like there’s a thousand thoughts raging around behind this calm and composed surface. But none of this is for him, Stiles, yes?

It’s really hard to tell who’s more handsome, Theo or Derek – Theo definitely looks more boyish, innocent almost which is fucking hilarious, with his youthful rebel kind of look and blonde hair and Derek looks like a man, is taller and darker, but, yeah.

It’s not like Stiles has to decide.

He’s made his choice.

So he hardly speaks when they’re sitting at Derek’s big and expensive looking table and eating the pasta he made – as Stiles noticed before, Derek is an excellent cook and Stiles assumes that the love for neatness and order that his apartment reflects also goes into the food he prepares. Derek is probably one of those people who can make a meal taste _exactly_ the way it’s supposed to taste.

“This is awesome,” Scott is saying for what feels like the four hundredth time. “All my mom ever makes these days are these weird salads. I’ve been feeling like I’m starving lately. Thank God there was rice stew in the cafeteria today.”

Derek scrunches up his face, obviously remembering the Beacon Hills High hell kitchen and Stiles immediately goes, “Ew, Scott, that’s so fucking gross. How you can even get that down your throat is beyond me, seriously. Er, the stew. This is great, Derek, really. It’s perfect.”

Derek’s face relaxes into a polite smile.

“I’m glad you like it.”

They eat in silence for another few seconds, Scott shoveling his food into his mouth in perfect oblivion as to the awkward silence between Derek and Stiles.

The last time they saw each other was when Theo had his hands down Stiles’ pants and told Derek he would make Stiles come apart under his touch later that day. The fact that he didn’t is a moot point. Everything that Derek saw and that Stiles didn’t say seems to be hanging in the air between them so when Derek suddenly says, “Stiles, how have you been?” Stiles turns to him in surprise and misses his mouth with his fork, just glues the pasta to his cheek.

“Er, good, good, yeah, like, good” – _he said not spastically at all_ , Stiles is thinking.

He wipes the sauce off his cheek with his napkin and when Derek is still staring at him as if Stiles’ answer didn’t say _I don’t want to talk_ loud and clear, he adds, “Not done with homework – we have a test coming up. Er – and I stopped working out for this week because my whole body still majorly aches...”

This prompts Derek to flick his eyes down to Stiles’ chest as if he could somehow discern what exactly it was that was hurting merely by looking at him hard enough.

“Good thing you stopped,” Scott says, “Dude, you really overdid it. Just take it easy, it’s never good to just force your body through it.”

Stiles looks pointedly down at his plate that’s almost empty now.

Is he imagining this or are they suddenly talking about something else entirely?

“I mean,” Scott is saying now, “you can inflict lasting damage when you overdo it. But you probably know a lot about this, Derek? You could show Stiles the whole how to – you know, how to weight lift without ruining your spine and stuff.”

“Huh? Yeah, sure... there’s a gym in the building, I could show you some things.”

“Great, then it’s settled,” Scott says and he’s beaming at Stiles who feels compelled to reign in his friend’s enthusiasm.

Whatever he thinks he is doing – and Stiles feels like there is a double meaning to everything Scott has been saying since their conversation this morning – it won’t work out. If anything, it would cause more pain and, how did Scott put it?

Regret.

So he says, “That would be awesome but, er... I’m sort of tired today and I can’t tomorrow, so...”

Derek gets up and picks up his and Stiles’ empty plates.

“Oh, come on, Stiles. You should always make time for pack things.”

Stiles throws a glance at Derek’s back and says, “You know very well I can’t.”

Maybe he should have just let that one slide and instead give a vague answer like, _Yeah, cool, I’ll text you then_ , or something because Derek’s shoulders visibly stiffen and maybe he’s slamming the plates into the dish washer with a little more force than necessary now.

But Stiles might be imagining it because when Derek turns around to pick up the rest of the dishes he looks as he always does, neutral and aloof.

When Stiles flicks his eyes back to the table, gets up to help Derek, he briefly meets Scott’s eyes who looks amused because apparently he has been following the way Stiles was watching Derek just now.

Stiles chooses to ignore it because it’s ridiculous.

Of course he would worry about Derek’s reaction, with Derek being an omicron and all, and angel’s ally, and having the literal bride of Satan sit at his dinner table.

But nothing beyond that, and that Scott would even suggest it – by looks and demeanor that is – is plain and simple ridiculous.

Later they’re sprawled out over Derek’s huge couch and watching some action movie because Derek’s an adult and adults have dinner and then don’t play video games afterwards even though Stiles spots a PS4 tucked away in the cabinet next to the TV and he knows from previous experience that Derek’s a huge nerd when it comes to videogames.

Not this night, though.

This night, it’s almost like he’s babysitting them, the way he keeps offering them juice and popcorn and the whole conversation never goes beyond boring small talk about this movie or that baseball game.

Whatever got into Scott to suggest a boys’ night at Derek’s in the first place. His apartment, though furnished now, still looks like it has way too little personal stuff and Stiles could never really imagine what Derek would do with an evening alone at home.

Probably share his time between staring into the air depressed and working out.

Derek’s not boring, though, and Stiles knows that – from the way he got to know him, especially during the time he was taking care of him after the last Theo-torture-incident, Derek can talk a lot when he wants to and it’s easy to have meaningful and interesting conversations with him.

He has just been incredibly dull recently, almost like a person who is slowly spiraling into depression, talking less and less often and showing less and less interest in everything that’s going on around him, shoulders slouching and eyes glazed and empty.

It’s painful to see him like this.

But Stiles can’t change it.

Soon they’re all dozing off and now they’re not so much spending an evening like adults but a lot more like they’re seventy and fall asleep on the sofa come 8 pm with their mouths open and their pants still on.

They haven’t spoken anymore in what feels like at least thirty minutes, probably because that’s when Scott messaged Kira and then put his cellphone down, closed his eyes and voiced how tired he was from the whole week.

Stiles feels comfortable, curled up on Scott’s right and the sofa is soft and fuzzy and smells perfect. He absolutely shouldn’t fall asleep here out of all places because tomorrow he’ll be meeting Theo and smelling like Derek Hale’s fucking couch is probably not putting Theo into the best of moods and, God, does Stiles _want_ him to be in a _good_ mood because maybe, just maybe, he’ll be spared for yet another couple of days but then, Stiles doesn’t want to think about this right now. He wants to think about how comfortable this is and how right and good and safe he is feeling for once.

Yeah, there’s something to this pack thing, he has to give it to Scott.

Stiles vaguely registers Derek get up from where he’s sitting at Scott’s left and walk over the fuzzy carpet. He expects him to pick up a glass and walk over to the kitchen – maybe go to the bathroom or his own bedroom – but Stiles can’t hear him move anymore. It sounds like Derek just stopped and now stands there – wherever.

When the sofa dips down on Stiles’ right he faintly wonders what Derek means by sitting down next to him but feels altogether too tired and comfortable to even open his eyes.

What he can’t ignore, however, is how Derek suddenly has his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, the fact that he slides one arm under and around Stiles’ upper body and then pulls him close, holds him there.

“Mh? Derek, what...” Stiles says and he feels too heavy to be awake and alert and confused and Derek just goes, “Shhhh... sleep.”

And Stiles keeps his eyes shut and allows himself to sink into the embrace and feel right and comfortable and safe, and sleep – he just wants to sleep.

There’s nothing else he’s really thinking of right now.

He’s not thinking anything at all.

 

 

The next morning he’s not sure anymore whether it really happened. He drives Scott and himself home after they wake up again around midnight, drops Scott off at his place and then drives the short distance to his own house and when he pulls the Jeep up to the garage, he wonders whether it had been real – whether Derek really wrapped Stiles in his arms while Stiles was almost out and asleep.

Because if he did – if he’d really done that, it would change things.

It would mean that not only is Stiles occasionally thinking about Derek – Derek is also thinking about Stiles.

Or, maybe not. Maybe it just means, _I care about you, little brother, and can’t show it to you because of the way you get sexually aroused whenever I shove you up the wall and keep my body way too close to yours_.

And that’s really the reason, too, Stiles has been almost certain of it.

When he locks his Jeep and shuffles up to the front door, dragging his feet and yawning, he may be tired but he can still put two and two together.

The demonic forces started acting up when Stiles felt even remotely attracted to Derek and drawn into the whole thing in a sexual way and he hopes to God that Derek didn’t notice. Then, when he was exhausted and humiliated and Derek was giving him a massage, he wasn’t really thinking about anything like that, so he was allowed to have Derek touch him without having that force tug on his skin from the inside, nudging him to stop.

That is really and truly horrible – like a mechanism in his brain that will punish him for adulterous thoughts and, yeah, most of the thoughts one has happen unconsciously so...

Yeah, he really needs to stay away from Derek.

So is that why Derek can cradle him in his arms like a baby and nothing whatsoever happens?

Or is that because it simply wasn’t real?

Stiles has been almost asleep and it’s usually when you’re half-awake and half-asleep that dreams can appear to be incredibly real, in the sense of full-blown hallucinations. It’s a normal thing especially when you’ve been stressing out. Stiles has moreover always been prone to that, as well as to sleep walking and talking in his sleep, both evidence of what a nervous wreck he’s always been.

So, yeah, it probably didn’t happen, judging from how Derek was sitting at his kitchen table when Stiles pushed himself up from the soft cushions, reading the newspaper like a forty-year-old in 1950 and then acted all composed and normal, was just his old, gloomy and monosyllabic self.

So it probably didn’t happen but Stiles _wished_ for it to happen and while he was about to fall asleep, already dreaming, his brain just fulfilled his wish – which would be a completely different level of unsettling, yes?

Stiles closes his bedroom door and, thankfully, this time no one is lurking in the darkness, waiting around for him to come home. He changes into boxers and his old, saggy sleep shirt, makes a short trip to the bathroom – brushing his teeth, throwing the dark rings under his eyes a sleepy look in the mirror – and then, finally, climbs into his own bed, almost excited at the prospect of being able to just sleep for the next twelve hours or so.

Not thinking beyond that.

Derek, Theo, Theo, Derek.

Way too complicated right now.

Just go back to sleep.

 

 

Stiles usually sleeps in on Saturdays and his dad knows better than to try and wake him for breakfast so color him surprised when someone is shaking his shoulder, going, “Stiles. Hey. Stiles! Wake up.”

God in heaven and mother Mary, what cruel and downright diabolical creature could possibly –

Oh, yeah.

Right.

 _That_ cruel and downright diabolical creature.

The fucking Devil himself.

Stiles draws himself up to a sitting position like a zombie who has gone _weeks_ without human flesh or Dracula out of his grave and mutters curses under his breath.

Theo lets out a laugh.

“What? I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Wow, you’re apparently still not a morning person. Has anyone ever told you that you look like the Grinch when you wake up?”

“No. Just you,” Stiles snaps.

He rubs his eyes and face and suppresses a yawn because he’s pissed and yawning is for people who slept peacefully and get to wake up pleasantly and not because Satan shook them awake.

“What do you even want, for the love of goddamn – we said _three_ in the afternoon, you major fucking dickhead...”

“Did we? I can’t seem to recall that.”

“Fucking yes!”

“Wow, you got a dirty mouth at eight a.m. in the morning.”

“It’s eight a.m. in the morning?!”

What the literal hell...

“Aaw, Stiles. You’re just – you remind me of why I chose _you_ at least once a day.”

Theo smiles at him sweetly – at least, Stiles thinks he does, he can’t really open his eyes just yet, too early, way too fucking bright. Way too cheerful, for God’s sake, and he feels literally too weak and tired to put up with it right now.

Theo drags his index finger along the line of Stiles’ jaw, then tips his chin up to look him in the – well, in the puffy clenched things that will, soon, very soon, become his regular eyes.

Yeah, no.

Not a morning person.

And then, just because morning isn’t already synonymous with horrible, the door opens and Stiles is pretty sure that his father’s in the room.

Yep, he’s standing right there, Stiles can see him staring at them wide-eyed and working his jaw like he was about to say something and then the words just died on their way to his lips.

Theo who still had the tip of his finger touching Stiles’ chin lightly when the door opened let his hand drop down to his side quickly – but not quickly enough for the sheriff to _not see_ – and Stiles wants to punch him.

He knows the move.

It’s Theo’s _oh, no, you caught us, I certainly didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry Mr. Stilinski_.

He doesn’t have to look up to see Theo’s lips twist into an embarrassed smile and he’s fucking sure the guy’s running his right hand through his hair now.

Goddamn it, does Stiles loathe him.

But he’s a _really_ good actor.

The sheriff clears his throat, looks around the room uncomfortably.

Clears his throat again.

“I – I thought I heard something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,” Theo says bashfully – fucking _bashfully_ , “er, I didn’t mean to intrude, it’s er... Stiles told me to just come up without waking up the whole house. Ehm... without out waking you up, that is, I guess. Sir.”

Stiles who can see the room more and more clearly now immediately recognizes the look on his dad’s face.

Suspicion.

He knows his son hates getting up early and the last thing he’d do would be having a friend over at eight fucking o’clock in the morning.

“Okay,” he starts, slowly, eyeballing Theo. “Alright then, boys. Would you care for breakfast?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Theo says, immaculate face relaxing into a bright smile and the sheriff nods once, curtly, turns around and is out the door again.

“He’s not buying your act,” Stiles mutters. He’s struggling to his feet – oh, it’s always, _always_ a struggle, why is this so _hard_ – and starts rubbing his face.

“Oh, he will.”

Theo catches his hands.

Pulls them away from Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles can feel a surge of adrenaline, of _fear_ , and, all of a sudden, he’s wide awake.

Staring back at Theo who, yeah, is looking gorgeous because of course he is.

Gorgeous and fucking terrifying.

“Hey, hey... don’t be scared, okay? I won’t kiss you.”

His smile widens and he lets go of Stiles’ hands, pulls back.

“Yet.”

 

 

When the clock strikes ten, Stiles feels like he might as well go to bed again because he’s done. Completely and utterly done with this.

It’s not that a lot of things happened during breakfast, oh no, not at all.

Besides the sheriff not getting the bacon crispy enough, not the way Stiles likes it anyway and Theo offering most politely to throw the strips back into the pan, _if that’s ok with you, Sir, just to get it the way Stiles likes them, don’t mean to offend you, Sir_.

The way Theo keeps watching Stiles’ fucking mouth when he’s chewing – he feels like he might just be done eating.

For, like, forever.

And his dad sitting there and catching it – all of the freak show that is _Stiles and Theo_.

And Theo just being subtle enough that it could never pass for an act but rather seems a lot like he’s really not even aware of what he’s doing, like he’s struggling to hide it, the _things_ – what he’s feeling or whatever.

But, oh God, does he know what he’s doing.

Theo’s the best, has always been.

Then there’s a few loud knocks on the door and the sheriff jumps up and darts through the kitchen and into the living room and even without werewolf senses, Stiles can hear his dad hiss, _“God, I’m glad you’re here, Scott, something really weird is going on!”_

Theo is cracking up, body shaking with silent laughter, and when Scott is strolling into the kitchen behind the sheriff, he wipes away a tear and gives Scott a wide grin.

And then, Derek is trudging into the kitchen, hands buried in the pockets of his tight black pants and Stiles' heart just drops through the floor.

Derek has his eyes averted, mutters, “Morning,” and shakes his head no to the sheriff’s question whether they’d like to join them, please, go ahead, there’s still scrambled eggs left and he meant to whip up some pancakes later anyway.

“Er, we actually came to pick Stiles up – Stiles and Theo. We have this project to do for history, er – we need to start really early. Sorry to barge in on you like that.”

“History project?”

“Yeah.”

Scott is nodding his head vividly.

The sheriff furrows his brow.

“Alright, boys. But – why is Derek here then?”

“Er...”

Scott gets this blank look on his face like he fucking didn’t think any of this through at all and Derek looks like he just wants to facepalm.

At least Theo’s having fun.

“Er, Derek’s here because – he knows a lot about – _history_.”

Good grief.

“And history isn’t a code word for strip club or alcohol or fake IDs.”

“No, Sir,” Derek pipes up. Clears his throat.

He looks tired.

Stiles knows that if there’s another person on the planet who might be even less of a morning person than himself, it would be Derek.

“You know I would never allow that. It really is a school project. I still got some books about the area and – photographs. Er, my mother used to tell me a lot of stories when I was a kid.”

Stiles can’t help but stare at Derek.

That he’d mention his family, and in front of Theo, too.

He must really be wanting to get Stiles out of there.

The sheriff rubs his head in a very Stilinski move, flicks his eyes from Scott to Stiles and over to Derek again.

“Okay. Sorry, Derek – I just had to check.”

Derek nods and stays silent.

 

 

Then they’re all in Derek’s car and Stiles doesn’t feel comfortable because the way Derek speeds up and then all but floors the brakes at every red light says loud and clear that he’s in a bad mood. Having the Devil in the backseat of his car must be sheer agony for him and whenever Stiles catches a glimpse of Derek’s eyes in the rear-view mirror he thinks he can spot a flicker of bright green that spites the dark shadows the morning sun is throwing over Derek’s face.

Theo for his part is just sitting there, looking out the window and watching houses and trees slip by, humming softly to himself, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Which is probably true.

No one speaks until the car pulls up to the Hale house and Stiles can no longer suppress the urge to voice the thought that has been kicking around in his brain.

“Scott? Where are you going with this?”

“If we can’t keep the bastard away from you,” Scott is talking over Theo’s head as if he weren’t there, “I figured we might just keep him from being alone with you.”

Theo pushes the car door open. He’s shaking his head.

“Oh, Scott. Seems like even I overestimated you... I have to disagree with you.”

“Fucking color me shocked,” Scott says and his face just slams shut and he looks livid all of a sudden, like he really wants to hurt Theo right now, right there.

“Come on, Scott. You want to hit me so badly – just do it. If we have to go through this again, so you’ll learn – go ahead. Maybe I’ll even let you hit me once or twice just to have you get rid of that awful expression on your face.”

He scrutinizes Scott for a moment.

Shakes his head again.

“Jeez. Like a little kid who really needs to pee.”

“You fucking-,” but, surprisingly, it’s Derek who slides his arm around Scott’s shoulders from behind and drags him away.

He’s not even looking at them.

“It’s not worth it, Scott. There’s nothing you can do. You’ll just wear yourself out.”

Something moves inside Stiles’ chest when Derek’s hand slams down on Scott’s shoulder and he shoves him in the direction of the house. Leaves him, Stiles, to Theo, like he’s already given up, like he’d been telling Scott over and over again that the plan is useless.

If Stiles wants to screw around with the Devil, just let him, for God’s sake.

Stiles knows that it probably isn’t like that but he’s uncomfortable and sad and hurt and the idea just piles on the misery.

When he climbs out of the car, Theo is watching him.

No smile on his face, body stiff, sort of.

Eyes narrowed.

“What...,” he starts, then shifts his head to throw a look at Scott and Derek.

Lets it snap back again and screws his eyes around to glue them to Stiles’ face in a series of most unhuman movements that make Stiles’ stomach turn.

“Interesting,” he whispers with a look on his face like he doesn’t, in fact, find this interesting at all.

Stiles half expects him to push him up against Derek’s car then and there but Theo just sets his jaw and nods for Stiles to move, just start walking already, we don’t have all day and your goofy friends are already annoying the fuck out of me.

So, Scott was at least halfway right, Stiles is thinking as he is shuffling through the leaves behind Theo, eyes on the forest ground.

Theo can get jealous and not just in a sarcastic way, whenever he’s playing at being human again.

But Stiles is just pretty sure that this won’t go down like anything Scott has planned at all but might rather spiral into a fucking nightmare again pretty fast.

He’s certain that he’d have had a few days before Theo would have grown bored and wanted to do things, things that would agitate and frighten Stiles who was beginning to get used to his constant presence once again.

A few days, maybe even weeks.

But from the way Theo’s staring straight ahead, not unworried and carefree anymore but never letting Derek out of his line of sight anymore, Stiles thinks – fears – Scott’s little plan might speed things up considerably.

No, don’t think like that, Stiles.

Just – try and relax, think of – rainbows, butterflies, whatever.

You don’t want to have a full blown panic attack on the front porch of the Hale house with Scott and Derek and Theo all watching.

And if possible, try and not empty your stomach out all over the floor. It may be blackened and burnt but Derek would probably not appreciate it.

 

 

When Derek turns around to look at you, his eyes are glowing bright green but he seems composed, like the deadly calm before a storm, because Theo has touched your hand, leaned over to you with a malicious smile edged into his face and breathed into your ear,

“...and then let’s go home, Stiles. I want to fuck you.”

 

 

 

It got pretty ugly after that.

There was a lot of snarling and yelling and bearing of fangs but, the pact being made and Theo being all smug and calm again, amused even, and very satisfied with the reaction to what was mere words on his side, not much happened.

Stiles got to see firsthand just how little his pack would be able to do against the plague that is Theo.

Not that he hadn’t known.

But to see Scott and Derek strain against invisible chains, fully wolfed out, Derek all but turning into an actual wolf, snapping their teeth at Theo but not gaining so much as an inch was just.

It was horrible. Humiliating.

Stiles had to grab Theo’s upper arms and shake his whole body and beg him to please, please stop.

“Are you insane? They’d rip me apart. Well, I’m not sure if Derek could, his omicron powers are weakened by our deal but the wolf in him still wants to claw my throat out. See that? And look at Scott,” and with an amused smile, Theo flicked his eyes over to where Scott was trying to walk in his direction, right foot oddly stuck in mid-air and veins pulsating on his throat, even his lower arms, and Stiles was suddenly scared that he might have a heart attack or an aneurysm. Yeah, Scott would probably heal but at that particular moment seeing his friends like that scared him shitless.

And fear isn’t rational.

“... just _look_ at him. He can’t do anything. So much for your pack, Stiles.”

And then the bastard turned to him, Stiles, with this earnest expression on his face and forehead wrinkled like he was Marlon Brando who just went from staring into the sunset to looking at the hot chick in the passenger seat, like Scott and Derek weren’t still struggling to get to him, making odd choking sounds, faces distorted and bodies frozen in mid-jump.

“I told you, I wouldn’t hurt them. Believe me now?”

Stiles quickly jerked his head up and down.

He and Theo certainly differed when it came to what qualified as hurting his friends.

“Just relax a little around me, will you?”

And when Stiles dragged Theo away, he was screaming inside his head about how he knew Theo _wanted_ the torment, the turmoil, the misery, thrived on his, Stiles’, anxiety and fear but it didn’t matter then.

Whatever the hell the guy wanted.

Stiles knew it wasn’t simple, and that Theo had always been a weird mixture of predictable and unpredictable.

All that mattered was to get him away from Scott and Derek.

 

 

They’re sitting in Derek’s car that Theo is driving, magically, without the keys but he still keeps his hand on the steering wheel and eyes on the road like he’s an actual person driving.

Oh, how he loves to keep up the act.

Stiles’ hands, inexplicably, are shaking.

“Oh, Stiles,” Theo says with a laugh and raises his eyebrows, throws him a quick look, gives him a shake of the head. “Come on, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

But Stiles can’t say anything.

Theo looks over to him again.

“Stiles, come on. Don’t freak out like that – nothing happened.”

Another laugh in combination with a frown, like Theo is actually thinking _what the fuck_.

“Stiles, are you having a panic attack right now? What the – dude, seriously?”

But Stiles just stares ahead and everything is strange, the houses seem to spill into the streets and the sky and trees blur and – oh, God, he isn’t breathing.

He should be but he isn’t, he fucking can’t feel himself breathing and he just knows he’ll run out of air _any second_ , any second now, and then Theo has already pulled to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. He unbuckles Stiles’ seat belt and not a second too soon because Stiles needs to get _out of here_ fast.

“Easy, easy, Stiles, hey!”

Stiles almost gets the belt wrapped around his throat but Theo quickly snatches the thing, pulls it away from him and Stiles slams his whole body into the car door, fumbles it open, and spills out onto the grass.

“Stiles!”

Stiles is inhaling, taking deep breaths but nothing comes.

It’s like there’s no air outside but how is that even possible, it was so crammed and stifling inside Derek’s car with the wrong person where Derek should be sitting but out here, it should be all good, he should be better out here but he isn’t.

He’s going to choke, knees digging into the soil and fingers curling around leaves of grass, ripping them clean out of the ground, roots and all.

“Stiles. Stiles!”

Theo is grabbing his shoulders. He tries to pull him into a sitting position.

“It’s alright. Can you hear me? It’s okay, you’re hyperventilating. Everything’s alright.”

He slips his right hand over Stiles’ mouth and nose and presses down. Holds him tight, so Stiles can’t kick himself free even though, God, he’s trying.

It’s not the most elegant, nor the most effective way to bring him back, but it’s working.

After a few more moments of sheer panic, certain that Theo means to choke him to death now, Stiles manages to shake off his hand – probably because Theo removed it willingly himself.

Stiles crawls a few feet away from him, panting, tears streaming down his cheeks. His chest still feels like it’s been wrenched into a tight box, like he can’t fully inhale but yeah, he knows it was just a panic attack.

Some people are convinced they’re having a heart attack, others a stroke. When he’s at his worst, Stiles thinks he’s choking because his diaphragm suddenly stopped working.

Which – that’s not how it works and he knows that but it’s just – it’s pre-rational and humiliating and he is forcing himself to not give in to the urge and inhale again but tries to hold his breath a little and then exhale slowly even though it feels awful and he needs _air_ so desperately.

Theo is sitting in the grass a few feet away from him, rubbing his forehead.

He lets out a sigh, almost like he’s relieved.

“Jeez. Stiles... what the fuck, man...”

They’re squatting close by the car which is probably a good thing because like this, at least no one can see them.

Stiles glares at Theo, then averts his eyes again.

He wants to make a snide comment about how you just don’t fucking slam your hand over a person’s mouth when they’re having a panic attack but the whole world is still spinning.

His chest aches – aftermath of too much muscle clenching and magnesium and potassium getting pumped into his muscles and bones to strengthen them, preparing for fight or flight, and thus now lacking in his blood and he feels so fucking drained and shaky.

“You okay now?”

When Stiles doesn’t respond, Theo slides over to him and pulls him to a standing position.

Stiles clumsily wriggles out of Theo’s grip, climbs into the driver’s seat.

When Theo pulls his own door closed, he shifts in his seat to look at Stiles.

Doesn’t say anything.

“What,” Stiles snaps after a few seconds of this.

“I’m not sure, I enjoyed this,” Theo says earnestly.

Oddly.

Then, all of a sudden, he slams his head back into the headrest and barks out a laugh.

“Ha, good _God_. I’m fucking far gone down this road, Stiles.”

Turns his head to look at him again.

Another laugh.

“Your eyes are fucking _amber_. Did you know that, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. Fumbles with the seat belt.

Finally manages to force out a shaky, “Wh-what?”

But Theo is laughing, still has his head thrown back and cackling maniacally, breath hitching in his throat in the weirdest way Stiles has ever heard.

He slams the gear into drive, then floors the gas pedal, not even bothering to wipe off the tears that start appearing on the corners of his eyes.

 

 

Theo has gone fucking insane.

Stiles has no idea what the hell is going on but Theo is still shaking with silent laughter when he pulls up to Stiles’ house, puts the car in park.

He follows Theo into the empty kitchen where the other just makes himself at home, sits Stiles down at the table and pours him a glass of water.

And when Stiles puts down the glass after three sips, says, “No, _all_ of it.”

Stiles glares at him but picks the glass up again, puts it against his lips and tilts it.

When Theo flops into a chair with a sigh he finally seems to have sobered up again because he says, “I tell you what, Stiles...”

“Oh, goody, I can’t wait to hear.”

Theo raises his eyebrows at him.

“You seem to be feeling a lot better. Good. Anyway... that was the biggest fucking panic attack I’ve ever watched you have – and you had them on a daily basis when you were a kid.”

Stiles is staring down at the empty glass.

Yeah.

He knows.

“So I tell you what – I’ll shield your thoughts from Derek’s today. So he won’t get pulled towards you.”

Stiles’ head snaps up, eyes wide with amazement.

“You can do that?”

Theo rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh.

“Of course, I can, Stiles. I thought the fact that Derek is forced to listen to your thoughts and to stand outside and watch, completely helpless, was sort of fun but – I guess I can do without that for a while. Obviously the stress is too much for you.”

Stiles blinks.

He feels relieved all of a sudden, knows that Theo can sense it because he smirks and adds, “And even though I’ll continue to keep them away from the house, I’ll let them both out of my cage now, too. Just for you.”

“What? They're still trapped in there?”

Theo shrugs, draws himself up from the table.

“Well, not anymore now.”

He stretches and yawns.

“Look at that, you were right, I should have let you sleep longer. It’s not even noon and I already feel tired.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. His thoughts are still lingering on the fact that he could have asked Theo to erect a barrier around his thoughts long ago and spared Derek the pain.

Of course, Theo probably wouldn’t have done it then.

Or would he? Had Stiles asked him, he might have.

Theo’s gaze wanders to the kitchen door.

“Let’s go to your room, shall we?”

 

 

Theo insists on doing their homework first, it’s almost hilarious.

He keeps pointing out mistakes to Stiles who is unfocused, distracted by all the possibilities this new knowledge opened up to him.

“Stiles, it should be x², not -0,43. Seriously... are you even listening to me?”

“Can you detach me from Derek for good?” Stiles blurts out and his cheeks redden because that came out all wrong.

Theo leans back in his chair and looks at him for a moment.

“If you want me to.”

“Yes,” Stiles says immediately. “Yes, I want you to. Please do.”

Theo’s lips twist into a satisfied smirk and Stiles, once again, gets this sudden urge to punch him.

“I want to protect him,” he says coolly and Theo nods. Keeps smiling.

“Fair enough.”

They look at each other.

“So – are you doing it or not?” Stiles says and Theo rolls his eyes again.

“I already did, Stiles. What, do you want me to say abracadabra?”

Stiles presses his lips together.

Good.

Now it’s really him and Theo.

Forever.

He shudders at the thought.

But Derek will be glad. Finally relieved of the burden.

Now his omicron powers should be almost useless and he can go back to being a regular beta again.

 

 

 

Derek’s head snaps up and Scott and Kira turn away from the TV to look at him.

“You alright?” Scott says and Kira adds, “You’re really pale. Er – like, more than usual, I mean.”

“He did it...,” Derek whispers and the others exchange a puzzled look.

Derek darts up from the sofa. Fists his hands into his hair.

“ _Fuck_!”

They watch him pacing the room, not sure what to say.

“Fuck the – God, I _knew_ it, I fucking knew it...”

“We need to get to Stiles, fast,” Scott says, alarmed, because this is suddenly making sense to him.

But Derek doesn’t move in the direction of the door.

Instead he flops onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands.

“We can’t, Scott. And I think, Stiles is okay. Right now, at least.”

“But, what do you-”

“He cut the connection,” Derek hisses and looks up to meet Scott’s eyes. “I can’t _hear_ Stiles anymore.”

“But... that’s good, right?” Kira says and slowly, hesitantly lifts her hand as if wanting to pat Derek’s shoulder, comfort him somehow but then decides against it and instead grabs a strand of her own long, black hair and starts twirling it around her index finger nervously.

“No, it fucking isn’t, Kira. It’s fucking horrible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Now we can’t know when Theo is doing anything to him. Is that what you mean?” Scott says, voice composed but facial expression stern.

Derek nods his head yes, yes that’s exactly what he means.

“Well... it’s not like that was useful before. Right?”

Scott has his hand on Derek’s back, voice a little softer now.

“It was just tormenting you anyway. We’ll come up with a pl-”

“There’s no fucking plan anymore, Scott!”

Derek jumps up from the sofa, shakes off Scott’s hand like it’s poison.

“There’s only _one_ thing left I can do now, _have_ to do and it’s fucking – I _can’t_ -”

His eyes dart around the room as if searching for a way out. As if he was looking for an envelope labelled _solution to all our problems_ that was just sitting on a shelf somewhere around his apartment.

“Oh, _screw_ this,” he finally spits out, turns on his heels and starts in the direction of the door. Slides into his shoes, grabs his jacket and apartment keys in one swift motion and then he’s out the door.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Scott is frowning, pulling himself slowly up from the sofa.

“One thing left to do? What is he talking about?”

“Should we follow him?”

Scott shakes his head.

“No, if Derek doesn’t want to be found, he won’t. I’m guessing he’s headed over to Stiles’.”

“On foot? But that’s-”

“Derek’s fast,” Scott says with a half-smile.

 

 

 

“He cut the connection? But – can he just do that?”

Malia is sitting at her kitchen table that has been pushed away from the wall and into the middle of the room. She is staring at Derek with wide eyes.

“He just did,” Derek grits out.

“He’s the devil. Of course he can,” a man in a blue track suit is saying. He has a cheerful face and sparkling blue eyes and is sitting next to Malia who is kneading her hands and frowning. The man, however, looks calm, relaxed even.

“There, there, girl... no need to worry.”

Is that – a Scottish accent?

Malia doesn’t even shoot him a glance. Everything about her, from the way she’s pulling her shoulders up to her ears to the deep frown on her face says that she doesn’t agree, that they should, in fact, worry.

A lot.

Derek who sits opposite Malia at the table flicks his eyes at the man in the track suit.

“... what now?”

And then, “Phanuel?”

“It’s Farnoel, but never mind. Well – I’d say we proceed to plan B. We should, we really should, shouldn’t we? Aha, yes. Yes, indeed.”

Derek is already shaking his head, not so much in disagreement but as if saying _no, no we can’t, we have to but we can’t_.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Derek. Cheer up, will ya?”

Derek throws him a nasty look. Averts his eyes.

The man claps his hands and goes, “Then it’s settled.”

“It’s _not_ settled,” Derek hisses, “Phanu- Far- I _can’t_ do it, okay? I won’t. I just – there _has_ to be a different – and what the _hell_ is up with your dad, Malia?! This is fucking distracting.”

All three pairs of eyes settle on the fourth person at the table.

Henry Tate is sitting in his chair opposite Farnoel, perfectly immobile, hands folded and resting on the table top, mouth and eyes screwed wide open. He looks like a life-sized ventriloquist’s dummy.

“I told you Derek,” Malia says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. She doesn’t look at her dad, keeps her eyes glued to the table top.

“It was Theo. He did – _something_ to him.”

“But – how is that even possible? I thought Theo was forbidden to hurt anyone now?”

Derek narrows his eyes and extends his hand to touch Mr. Tate’s doughy looking skin.

Retracts his fingers immediately upon contact and shudders.

This doesn’t feel right and all his wolf senses are screaming _freak of nature_.

_Wrong, monster, disease, don’t touch, hide._

“I don’t know, Derek,” Malia snaps. None of them has a lot of patience these days.

“But he just did.”

“Well...,” Farnoel starts and both Derek and Malia roll their eyes. It’s obvious that they dislike his cheerful demeanor.

“ _Technically_ he didn’t hurt him. I mean – looks healthy to me.”

Derek lets his gaze glide over Henry Tate’s milky eyes, his lips, teeth and tongue that all look like they’re made out of plastic and thinks that he can’t think of a more ridiculous label for the man than _healthy_.

“Except he’s not alive,” Malia mutters and Derek throws her a pitying glance.

It must be horrible to have your dad sitting in front of you – or, well, to your left – but it’s somehow only his shell.

There and yet, unreachable.

The corners of his lips pull downwards.

Like Stiles.

He meets Phenuel’s gaze who had been watching him, this eerie gleam in his eyes that makes the hair on Derek's neck stick up.

“Oh, that’s right, Derek. But only for now. Theo will break his pact. We will make him break it and banish him from this world. Patience, I’d say. Patience.”

Right.

Dude can read his thoughts.

Derek keeps forgetting that.

If Phenuel weren’t on their side – if he weren’t an angel – no way in hell would Derek trust him. The guy freaks him out and he can tell that Malia feels the same way.

Hell, even Phenuel knows.

Is amused by it.

As a matter of fact, Derek thinks he’s just as creepy as Theo.

“With the tiny difference that I heartily despise torture and physical mutilation,” Farnuelle throws in and Derek’s jaw drops open.

Damn it.

He did it _again_.

Sneaky son of a bitch.

“Watch your language,” Farnual says and winks at Derek who darts up from the table.

“I stand by what I said. I won’t do it. And I won’t let you use someone else for it. There has to be a different way.”

Phaniel folds his hands on the table top, all but imitating Henry Tate and blinks up at Derek.

“I thought so. Ah, humans... since you’re not willing to make that sacrifice-”

“It’s _not_ a sacrifice, it’s-”

“Let’s move on to plan C,” Phaniel says, raising his voice to drown out Derek’s protest. His friendly smile looks almost threatening right now.

Derek can’t put his finger to it, but there’s _something_ wrong with it.

Just as something’s wrong with Henry Tate’s face that is frozen in the creepiest laugh Derek has ever seen.

“What’s plan C?”

“I’m glad you ask, Malia. We’ll talk to Stiles.”

“Talk to him?” Malia mouths, her frown deepens and Derek goes, “That was an option?! What the fuck, man?!”

“When? When do we talk to him? Because-”

“Calm down,” Faniel says with a laugh. “Calm down, kids. No, Derek, this hasn’t been an option from the beginning but it is one now. If I’m not completely mistaken – if I’m not mistaken, then Lucifer,” and he lowers his voice, his smile widening, “is starting to get jealous. Of you, Derek.”

That silences both Derek and Malia.

“Yes, yes, he’s the devil but he’s very attentive. When you gave Stiles the silent treatment this morning-”

“I didn’t give him the silent – that’s ridiculous,” Derek immediately says but the angel raises his right hand and Derek’s mouth just zips shut.

Derek throws him an angry looks but flops down into a chair and crosses his arms.

Waiting now for what he has to say.

“As I was saying. We might be able to get Lucifer to break his pact without you getting physical with Stiles, Derek, or, you know, scent-marking him all the time.”

Derek is just staring at Phaniel wide-eyed and it’s hard to tell whether it’s in disbelief or because the angel forgot to unzip his mouth.

“Jealous? Does he even have feelings like that?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Malia. Everyone does. Anger, jealousy, frustration – even psychopaths have these. And Lucifer isn’t a psychopath. He’s Other, just as I am but – the human vessel he has taken into possession. _Your_ brother,” and he gives Malia a gracious nod, “has had a great impact on him. _Shaping him_ , if you will.”

“But I... I thought he’s gone. My brother is all gone.”

Her lips are quivering and Derek puts his hand on her knee, pats it twice, soothingly.

“It doesn’t work like that, silly girl,” the angel says and his blue eyes sparkle. “Soul and body, body and soul – that’s a myth, the two can’t be separated. Transformed, yes. Immortal, yes, if that’s what you want to call it. But separated? Not really.”

“So... so they’re still there? Both of them?”

Malia shoots her father a look.

“Dad and – and Theo? My brother, Theo, I mean?”

The angel shrugs and yawns, looking bored, and almost annoyed, all of a sudden.

“Yes, yes, probably. It’s hard to tell just how much Lucifer has allowed himself to melt into Theodore Raeken – the actual Theo, I mean. But from what I can tell, they’re almost one now. Which is splendid for us. You see, Malia, your brother had the biggest crush on his best friend Stiles when he was just eight years old and these feelings seem to keep growing and we can use them against him. They’re his weakness and our weapon. And whether it’s Lucifer’s obsession with Stiles or whether that’s Theodore, who knows. It’s not important.”

Derek shifts in his chair.

“Actually,” he says, frowning, “it does seem important to-”

But the angel will not be interrupted.

Derek falls silent, obviously involuntarily once again because his hand shoots up to his mouth and then he’s just staring at Phaniel, anger written all over his features.

Phaniel, however, pulls himself up from the table, the cheerful smile all but gone now which makes him seem cool and hostile.

Dangerous.

Yes, despite the track suit.

“Good, good. I’ll talk to Stiles and, you know – nudge him a little bit in your direction, Derek” – a look from Derek that is a mixture of confusion, surprise and vexation – “but I’ll need a different body for that. And to be honest with you – I am starting to grow tired of this old man. Oh, I loved his blue eyes but still – wearing this track suit and yet, never seems to have worked out even once in his life. Good grief, humans... whatever it is that Lucifer sees in you. I have never quite understood.”

 

 

 

Stiles puts his pencil down.

Pushes his textbook far away from him. Theo picks it up and puts it onto the pile on the floor.

“I’m proud of you.”

“I’m not ten,” Stiles mutters.

“And yet – you did your homework _and_ studied _and_ ate your vegetables like a good boy.”

Stiles grimaces.

“You’re such a... a pain in the ass...”

“And here comes your dad.”

And Stiles can hear heavy footfalls in the hallway only a second later.

His dad had come home two hours ago.

They’d had dinner together and Theo’s story as for why Derek’s car was in the driveway had been almost hilarious.

Something about Derek’s alleged love for ceramic ducks and a yard sale at Mrs. Potter’s.

Now there’s a soft knock on the door, a careful “Boys?”

“Come in, dad.”

The knob is being turned and the sheriff’s face appears in the door.

“Everything good here? Just, er... wanted to check.”

When he sees them sitting at Stiles’ desk, he pushes the door open wide.

“You’re still working?”

Stiles shrugs and Theo says, “Yes, Sir.”

The sheriff narrows his eyes at the ‘Sir’ as he always does like he's obviously thinking that Theo is just a little too polite.

Just a touch too smug.

He’s the sheriff after all.

“Well, that’s a first...”

“It’s not like I never study, dad...”

“I didn’t say that,” the sheriff says and holds up his hands, like wanting to add, _alright, alright, don’t get mad at me_.

“Okay so... there’s still pie in the fridge and, er... I’m going to bed now – my shift starts at six.”

“Alright.”

Stiles gives his dad a little smile.

“Goodnight, dad.”

But the sheriff doesn’t move.

“Will Derek pick up his car anytime soon?”

A shrug from Stiles.

“Probably.”

The sheriff looks at his son.

Then flicks his eyes over to where Theo is sitting with a faint smile on his lips and it’s clear what he really wants to ask.

Why he’s still standing here.

“So, Theo... when do you have to be home?”

“Before midnight, Sir.”

It’s around nine p.m. now.

Awesome, Stiles is thinking.

Still plenty of time.

Will this day ever end?

“Alright then. Stiles can drive you home.”

“Goodnight, Sir. We will try to keep it down.”

A frown from the sheriff and Stiles heard it, too.

What an odd way to put it.

“We won’t play video games,” Stiles feels himself compelled to add.

To clarify.

“Yeah. We won’t,” Theo says with a smirk and Stiles wants to melt into the floor and vanish.

His dad throws Theo another suspicious look, nods slowly.

“Okay. Good. Goodnight, boys. Drive safely, Stiles, and try not to hit Mrs. Wilkinson’s cat.”

“This stupid animal is suicidal, I swear,” Stiles mutters and his dad shakes his head. Closes the door behind him.

They listen as he walks down the hall, opens and closes the bathroom door.

“Phew,” Theo says, lifting his eyebrows, “You’ve got some explaining to do, Stiles.”

“What the-“

Stiles turns around in his chair, glowering at Theo.

“You son of a bitch, what’s up with these stupid smirks and suggestive – _oh, we’ll keep it down, Sir_ ’s.”

“Just having a little fun.”

“You bastard.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. As a matter of fact, you should be proud of me. Who’d have thought I’d ever be satisfied with less than the smell of burnt skin. The sound of your muffled little shrieks.”

Stiles pales – he can’t help it, the sheer memory lets his heart beat faster – and Theo’s smile widens.

“But... really, Stiles... now, that I think about it – now that I concentrate on it – I _am_ dissatisfied. This is fucking tedious. I could go home now but – there’s nothing for me to do there, either.”

He lifts himself up from the computer chair and swivels it around, so he can put his arms onto the backrest. Lowers his head and rests his chin on his folded arms.

Suddenly he looks a lot like ten-year-old Theo, mischievous smile on his face, the long sleeves of his hoodie hiding his buff arms.

And Stiles knows that look.

He doesn’t even have it in him to argue.

The sooner they start, the sooner Stiles can get this over with.

Stiles lets out a sigh and pushes himself up from his chair but when he meets Theo’s eyes he suddenly hears himself say, “I need to take a shower.”

Theo lifts his eyebrows.

“Well – okay. But hurry.”

Stiles flees into the hallway.

His knees feel like rubber and maybe, if his heart weren’t pounding like that, he would have heard his dad leave the bathroom.

“Stiles?”

“Mh?”

Stiles freezes on the spot, almost as if his dad had caught him trying to sneak beer upstairs.

Alcohol.

Brilliant idea.

He needs to get alcohol.

“Theo still in your room?” his dad says in a low voice and even though he knows that Theo’s a were-something, he clearly still doesn’t get supernatural hearing. So Stiles just nods his head and wants to squeeze past him, quickly vanish into the bathroom but his dad grabs his wrist. Softly pulls him back.

“What are you doing?”

“I gotta pee, dad." And, dryly, "May I?”

“That’s not what I mean, Stiles. I mean what is going on?”

And he gives him with one of his piercing looks, like he already knows Stiles is up to something. Or, even worse, he knows his son well enough to tell that he's scared, even in the dark of the hallway.

Any other day, Stiles would have laughed it off, cracked a silly joke, given his dad finger guns and said something stupid like ‘ _All good, see ya tomorrow in broad daylight. Daddy-o_.’

Now though.

All he can do is force his lips up into a crooked smile, shrug and say, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Good God.

Pathetic.

Obviously, his dad is thinking the same because he grabs him by the shoulder and goes, “Stiles?”

“What do you want to hear from me, dad? Theo and I are friends, okay? You never asked me weird stuff like that when I hang out with Scott.”

And because he really doesn’t mean to snap at his dad like that he, adds, “Sorry dad, I’m just – really stressing out about this exam next week. I’ve been studying all day and still don’t really get it. Theo – he’s willing to tutor me, so...”

There’s a short silence, then his dad says, “Okay.”

Pats his shoulder but doesn’t sound too convinced.

“Okay, son. Er... don’t overdo it.”

Stiles jerks his head, something in-between a nod and a shake and escapes into the bathroom.

God.

Fuck.

He’s shaking.

Because he halfway expects Theo to follow him into the bathroom, he moves quickly. Undresses, hops into the shower. Thinks about shaving anything.

Decides against it.

Dries himself off.

Brushes his teeth and drops his toothbrush into the sink twice because for some reason he forgot how to curl and uncurl his fingers.

Aw, great idea.

Go get a shower and buy time.

Fucking brilliant.

The worst of it all is probably the fear of what is to come, worse than the thing itself.

This impending doom.

Then again.

He used to think the same thing when Theo was still torturing him for a pastime and it turned out every time that the expectation of pain is, in fact, never, _never_ as bad as the pain itself.

But that’s over now, right?

But fear doesn’t work like that. He rationally knows he escaped that kind of torment for good but somehow not every part of his brain has caught on yet.

So, you’re good, Stiles is thinking, staring into his own eyes in the mirror.

All good.

He seems to hear Theo pacing in his room which is total bullshit of course because Stiles doesn’t have supernatural hearing and besides, Theo is sneaky like a cat. But still.

Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, pulls up his shoulders and shuffles back to his room. Pauses in front of the door for a few seconds to listen for his dad’s snoring but can’t hear anything.

When he pushes the door open, Theo is standing in the middle of the room, a frown on his face.

“What in ‘Okay but hurry’ didn’t you get?”

Stiles just shrugs.

He’s already beyond talking and Theo can see that clear as day because he lets out a sigh.

“Will you relax already? I’m not going to eat you alive.”

“Well, sorry for being fucking terrified of you,” Stiles hisses. “Can’t really say that past experience has proved you perfectly innocent.”

“I never claimed I was innocent.”

He takes a step towards Stiles. Then another one. Lifts his hand and strokes Stiles’ right cheek. Brushes his thumb over his moles, traces his jawline with the tip of his index finger.

“And neither are you. Stiles...”

Stiles stays rooted in place, whole body frozen and Theo frowns at him again. Doesn’t remove his hand.

“You won’t ease up, hm...”

“It’s hard for me to believe you’d even want me to relax,” Stiles finally manages to say. Theo is way too close to him right now, so he’s really proud about the halfway snide comment.

“Well, I’d lie if I said I didn’t enjoy sensing a certain level of tension here, Stiles.”

And he pokes his index finger into Stiles’ chest.

“I love that I can push your buttons and yet – yet, to a certain extent, you remain unpredictable.”

He tilts his head and Stiles stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Unpredictable.

That’s it.

That's the solution.

His way out.

“Let’s see... how do I want this...”

But Stiles knows – all of a sudden  _he_ knows how this will go down and a wave of relief washes over him.

All this time he had accepted the role of victim when in reality, in reality he’d always had agency.

To a certain extent, yes?

He flops down to his knees in front of Theo which seems to actually startle him because he goes, “Wha- what are you-”

But Stiles is already fingering Theo’s pants open.

He’s not loving the idea but, oh God, so much better than bending over and waiting for Theo to hurt him.

When he looks up at him, Theo’s the wide-eyed one.

Stiles is staring into his eyes while pulling his pants open, arranging himself in front of Theo and unbuttons his boxer shorts because, thank God Theo is wearing a pair that allows you to just reach in and take his dick out without even having to tug them down and when Stiles does it, Theo’s jaw actually fucking drops.

He looks confused, uncertain.

Not sure what Stiles is doing, whether he approves of this or not and Stiles can feel euphoria rush through his body and making the skin on his stomach tickle. He’s satisfied with himself.

That's the other side of anxiety - when it finally fades away Stiles is usually left with a feeling of ecstasy. Connectedness, like everything is making sense all of a sudden and he's on top of the world and fearless.

Empowerment.

Makes the suffering almost worth it.

It’s enough to make him smirk at Theo which apparently unsettles him, Theo, even more because he seems to want to pull back but Stiles, he won’t allow it.

“So, what does it feel like to have some guy have a death grip on your dick, you fucking asshole?”

Without waiting for an answer, Stiles ducks down and opens his mouth.

Puts the tip inside. When he sucks two inches more into his mouth he can feel him harden immediately.

Hears Theo suck in a breath through his teeth.

Stiles feels him grow in his mouth and when he looks up, Theo’s cheeks are flushed.

He still has this look of utter confusion on his face and if Stiles didn’t have a dick in his mouth right now, he’d throw his head back and cackle hysterically.

God, he feels like he's losing his mind.

As it is, he just chuckles around Theo’s dick, eyes still locked with his and, for some reason, Theo’s body stiffens. For once he has absolutely nothing to say.

What Stiles is doing has wiped the smug smile off his face.

Huh.

Who’d have thought.

Then he just goes for it. Slides his mouth up and down Theo’s dick, completely not caring about the fact that halfway through, Theo curls into fingers into his hair, hands actually fucking trembling and once or twice makes a jerk with the hip as if meaning to pull away.

Then lets out a hiss or a choked ‘Hmm’.

As if having Stiles’ mouth on his dick is awesome but having Stiles in control almost unbearable.

After a few minutes or so Stiles' euphoria has ebbed away a little and rational thoughts start popping up in his brain, stuff like _what the fuck are you doing, man_ and _God, this is disgusting_.

But it’s too late now.

He slides his tongue to the left and right, flicks it over the tip and Theo suddenly goes, “Stiles. Stiles, stop!”

Absolutely breathless.

Grabs him by the shoulders as if wanting to push him back.

Stiles can’t help it, he stops and gives Theo a nasty grin.

Lets his dick slide out of his mouth – Theo lets out a moan, then immediately bites his tongue.

His face is flushed.

“What the fuck, Stiles,” he breathes. “What the literal fuck.”

Stiles shrugs.

Yeah, that sentence is currently flashing in his head in bright red letters.

_What the fuck are you doing, Stiles?_

And, a classic: _Who the hell are you?_

“What’s the matter, Theo? Not going according to plan?” he says coldly.

Looks up to Theo who’s mysteriously speechless again for a few seconds as if Stiles were mutating into a monster front of his eyes.

Stiles wraps his right hand around Theo’s hard dick and Theo lets out a very unmanly sound, looks down at Stiles with this helpless expression on his face, obviously torn between wanting to slap him and _oh God, please don’t stop_.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” he finally manages to grit out and Stiles shrugs again.

“Weird. Just a few hours ago I was thinking the same about you. Now,” and he gives him another cool look.

“Do you want me to finish or not?”

Pause and a silence during which Theo is trying to catch his breath.

It’s almost funny.

King of hell and, yet, so utterly confused by his own arousal.

Kind of cute, almost, if Stiles didn’t loathe the guy.

And, oh, he's as calm as death right now.

While he's sitting there, watching Theo, waiting for his reaction, Stiles feels nothing at all - no fear, no euphoria anymore either. He's empty and fucking calm.

He could commit a murder like this without blinking an eye, as long as it lasts, at least, before he spirals back into extreme anxiety.

Then Theo moves, finally.

He gives him a curt nod of the head, averts his eyes, humiliated, and Stiles smirks.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

He lowers his head and takes Theo’s dick back into his mouth and Theo immediately goes, “Oh, God. _Fuck_.”

Stiles can feel that he’s trembling, knees will probably give in soon, so he turns him around by the hips, shoves him into one of the computer chairs.

Slides his mouth up and down Theo’s dick and God, this is fucking exhausting.

His jaw muscles are starting to ache.

Forces himself to ignore the taste in his mouth.

Asking himself what on earth he’s going to do when Theo comes.

Then doesn’t really get the time to come up with an answer because it only takes a few more seconds until Theo lets out a choked moan and starts spilling into Stiles’ mouth and no way in hell will Stiles swallow that.

So he just lets it run down his chin and drip into his lap.

Moves his tongue.

Theo grabs him by the shoulders and this time, he pushes him away. His dick slides out of Stiles’ mouth and Stiles spits out the rest of the come. Doesn’t really care where it lands.

He did it.

He actually fucking did it and he doesn’t even gag but he’s still feeling sort of numb on the inside and – gone. Like this isn’t really his body.

Depersonalization at its extreme.

That might be a factor.

Theo is panting and staring at him. There’s drops of sweat on his forehead and for the first time, Stiles is thinking that maybe he’ll be able to avoid Theo sticking his penis up his butt.

He’d been looking at this all wrong, yes?

He could be the one doing it and Theo the one taking it.

“I’m tired,” he says. And then, “What happened? Someone muted you, finally? Who was it? Write down their name, I want to send them a fucking gift card.”

“Stiles,” Theo starts. He shifts around in the chair. Tucks his penis back into this pants and buttons them.

“You – made quite a mess.”

Stiles shrugs.

“That... that was-”

Stiles holds up his hand.

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

Don't wanna spoil this comfortable nothingness inside of me with self-loathing, thank you very much.

Then, “I’m tired Theo. It’s really late, so...”

Theo looks at him. Wipes his lower arm across his forehead.

“Okay.”

Takes a step towards him.

Stiles closes his eyes when Theo brushes his lips over his. There’s still come sticking to his chin and probably all over his face.

“You surprised me, Stiles,” he whispers.

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes. He just wants Theo to vanish.

 

 

Five minutes later, Stiles is alone again, finally.

He still can’t fucking believe he did that.

He's feeling less numb and more anxious by the minute.

Oh, this is not good.

This is going to be horrible.

What the fuck was he even thinking?

His clothes are on a pile in a laundry basket and he’ll be turning on the machine next thing tomorrow. Since Stiles is usually the one doing the laundry his dad probably won’t think it's odd.

Stiles picks up his toothbrush, his hand hovering over the sink for a few seconds. Then puts it back again. He really shouldn’t brush his teeth a fourth time.

But he can’t get the fucking taste out of his mouth, it just – _lingers_.

And it’s incredibly disgusting.

Fucking repulsive.

Whatever woman ever claimed she likes the taste of sperm?

Big fat liar, if you ask him now.

His cheeks and chin are glowing red because he soaped them down and then scrubbed at them for far too long, only stopped when he realized that he to go to school again the day after tomorrow and twenty-four hours might not be enough for his skin to go back to normal if he managed to make it raw and sore now.

 

 

Later he is lying in bed, staring into the darkness.

Yeah, this is an interesting turn of events.

He feels dirty and used but, oh well. He also feels like he managed to pick the best option out of a row of really shitty scenarios once again.

So, yay him, right?

When the tears start coming, and the almost irrepressible urge to vomit, he keeps telling himself that he could be lying here with a sore butt, not only feeling used but fucking raped.

Which – that certainly didn’t happen, right?

He was the one who initiated it.

Stiles is not a victim, yes?

He’s in control.

Total badass.

So stop shaking, for God’s sake.

 

 

It’s around one a.m. when Stiles hears a car door get pulled shut outside.

That’s Derek finally coming to pick up his car and it sounds like he's trying to make as little noise as possible.

Stiles wonders how long he had to wait around until he could come near the house again, until Theo lifted the barrier. Whether he'd waited and tried again and again or whether he was just like, _Oh, right, my car, completely forgot about that_ ten minutes ago. What he’s thinking right now – whether he thinks that he, Stiles did it. With Theo.

That they did it and that’s because Theo shut him out of Stiles’ thoughts.

Whether that’s a permanent thing now or whether Derek can hear him again or, God forbid, see the pictures that somehow won’t stop going through Stiles’ mind.

 

When he hears the car pull out onto the street he buries his face in his pillow.

He somehow expected Derek to come up to his room, knock at his window or at least throw a glance inside. To, like – see if he was okay, yes?

Whether Stiles wanted him there to see his puffed up lips and smell Theo’s sperm all over the room or not was a moot point.

He really, _really_ didn’t.

But he’d been staring at the spot where Derek’s face should have appeared any second nonetheless, any second now.

And nothing.

Emptiness.

Nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I meant to put a real steo rape scene in this one and then - couldn't do it (that will probably go into the next chapter).  
> Also, it may appear weird that Stiles asks Mason for advice - but I thought of it more as a cry for help from Stiles rather than this 'let's sit down and talk sex' that the conversation then turned into. Plus, no matter how curious Stiles is, he's still a teenager in the TV series, so I figured it would be legitimate to assume that he doesn't simply know everything and that to be prepared as well as possible would seem like a logical way for him to deal with the situation.  
> Oh, well, I don't know what I'm doing here. ^^"  
> Maybe logic and coherence will magically happen in my next chapter.  
> Probably not though.


	21. In the Dollhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steo, Steo, Steo - and Steo?  
> but Derek's in there, too
> 
> and so are: dolls, hellhounds, Scott, Malia, a peach tree and a tube of lube

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, you guys are so awesome!! I can't believe people are actually still reading this and your comments made me so happy that I sat down and wrote another chapter right away; there's weirdness in this one, too, as always (and you will go "what? what the hell is this again now?" more than once probably) - hope you'll enjoy nonetheless
> 
> oh, and - MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!  
> I feel the need to stress that I tried putting a lot of horror into this chapter, the 2nd half especially that contains a rather explicit rape scene, and that reading it might be really distressing to some people  
> I want to point out that this is, fortunately, fiction (!) and we write stuff like that to make sense of the horrible things happening in the world (like rape which is an atrocious crime), and maybe for catharsis - at least this is how I think of it - but of course NOT because we'd want any of this to happen - to anyone
> 
> anyway - do NOT read if you're not comfortable with this, just skip the chapter, or at least the second half of it

 

 

 

 

_Can you make that Derek can’t hear us? Please?_

_No._

 

 

 

Derek vanishes.

His black sports rolling out of the Stilinski driveway after midnight and pulling out onto the street is the last Stiles has heard from him.

Alright, it has only been a week but still.

Scott is worried. So Stiles is worried.

And Theo – Theo isn’t amused. He doesn’t want to listen to them talking about Derek, discussing why he’s up and gone this time. Like he couldn’t fucking care less about his pack.

About Stiles.

Theo keeps watching Stiles’ mouth – even when the sheriff isn’t there to see it, really like he can’t help it and it annoys Stiles. He dropped the _I’m so in love with Theo_ act in front of Scott but then, doesn’t deny it either. He’s never really been the – physical type, like making out in public or even holding hands. Way too awkward.

So it’s not particularly strange that Theo just sticks around and no one acknowledges it, especially not Stiles.

The next time he sees Theo is Monday morning and sometimes he really wonders what the guy does on his days off, when he can’t torment Stiles but neither bug anyone else, not even drown a puppy in the lake behind the old factory.

He’s probably just working out all the time.

Whatever it is, the thing that Stiles did to Theo Saturday night – it seems to be enough for almost three full days. Lasts him that long.

Funny because so does Stiles’ urge to throw up.

Theo only starts getting fidgety on Tuesday, after they had the first of three exams for the week – the one that Stiles has lovingly dubbed the week of horrors – trying to get Stiles to show up at Malia’s after school but Stiles shakes his head.

Nah, sorry bro. Gotta work out.

Gotta study.

Just – _don’t want to_ , okay? _Jeez_.

The first two times Theo just nods. The third, he sets his jaw and narrows his eyes. Then nods.

 

 

It’s Thursday morning, right after the fourth period. Their teacher has left the room and Scott and a few others ran to the loo. Stiles is thinking about whether Derek went back to Mexico and then whether Braeden is still in Mexico, when Theo knocks onto his desk twice to draw his attention.

“Today after school,” he says.

Not a question.

Stiles slowly shakes his head no, no not today after school. Doesn’t offer any other kind of explanation and, clearly, Theo has had enough. He slams his hand down onto the table top, almost breaks it and Stiles isn’t the only one to jump in his chair. Janine drops the books she’d been holding and is blushing wildly when Theo throws her a condescending look.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters and, yeah, he’s in a bad mood.

He turns back to Stiles and hisses, “So what – this was a one time thing then?”

Stiles just stares back at him.

He’s so not going to answer that right now.

The whole room is listening in.

“Don’t get cocky, Stiles. You can’t pull this off. Do you know who I am? Did that slip your mind?”

Stiles sets his jaw, finally gets a grip.

“Yes, I do remember - sort of hard to forget, too. Calm down, okay?,” and in a lower voice, “I can practically already hear the gossip-”

“I _don’t_ fucking _care_ about the gossip, Stiles. I don’t fucking care about anyone or anything. You – you don’t dare do this to me. You fucking don’t.”

And Stiles believes him.

God, does he believe him.

This has admittedly been a busy week and not meeting every day is fine but he can’t _reject_ Theo. It’s not in the deal.

“Alright,” he says, his voice almost a whisper now. “Alright, alright. Drive me home after school.”

Theo huffs out a “About fucking time” and struts out of the room, bumping his shoulder into Scott hard on his way out.

“Watch where you go, asshole,” Scott hisses and, a second later, “What the hell was that about?”

“Trouble in paradise?” Danny says with a dirty smile on his lips and Stiles rolls his eyes.

Keep up the act.

Keep up the goddamn act.

“He just – we had a little – disagreement. Ahem. He hasn’t been in a good mood this week.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Danny says. “Whew... talk about horny..”

Stiles goes, “Whatnow?” while Scott mutters, “Eew, don’t fucking say that, Danny.”

“Well, if you want to keep your boy happy you can’t just – let him have some _once_ and then keep turning him down like that.”

Stiles, stupidly, says, “How did you know?” and Scott’s jaw drops.

Danny shrugs nonchalantly.

“I know the signs.” Then leans in and lowers his voice. “And come on, Stiles, you look at every single guy in Beacon County and I dare you to find a hotter one than Theo Raeken.”

Again, without really noticing the look on Scott’s face, Stiles pipes up.

“He’s not _that_ hot. I mean, that’s not, like,” he swallows, “why I... er - _like_ him. Or anything.”

“No. Totally.”

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Mahealani.”

“If I were with Raeken, I’d at least know exactly where to put my face. But alright, challenge accepted – who does even compare to him, just in terms of looks? I dare you to give me _one_ name.”

And Stiles, of course, of fucking course, immediately goes, “Derek Hale.”

What the literal hell is wrong with him today?

He’d been turning the question of where Derek is, whether Derek is fine, I wonder if Derek met someone and that’s why he left, around in his mind that the words just spilled out of his mouth.

And as everyone knows, as soon as that happens, they can’t be reeled back in again.

Danny’s smile widens.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Completely forgot about Hale. Yeah, okay – I see your point, Stiles. Gotta give it to you.”

Then, in a lower voice, “But you really shouldn’t be saying that. I mean, if that’s what you’re thinking you should end this rather sooner than later because to me it looks like Raeken’s already in deep.”

“In... deep?”

Stiles gives him a puzzled look.

“Yeah, like – head over heels.”

A blink. Stiles tilts his head a little, mouth agape.

“For...”

“For _you_ , dumbass!” Danny says and shoots him an incredulous look. “Seriously now, Stiles?”

Stiles wants to sit Danny down and explain to him in detail how Theo can’t really fucking _feel_ and what Danny thinks he’s seeing is just his anger at having his favorite toy taken away from him momentarily. But when he moves his jaw, somehow only a few odd sounds drop out of his mouth, something like “Meep” or “Meeks” and Danny turns around and walks away, shaking his head.

When he’s almost at the door Stiles can still hear him go, “For whom... _unbelievable_...” and hopes to God no one else in the room listened in on this brief yet mortifying conversation.

Well, except one person, obviously.

Stiles finally remembers that Scott is standing right next to him. He has an odd expression on his face, one that Stiles didn’t expect in the least.

He looks _pained_.

“You alright?”

“Stiles – I’m _sorry_.”

“What are you talking about now, man,” Stiles mutters and picks up his bag. Puts it over his shoulder. It’s a rhetorical question.

Stiles doesn’t really want to know what Scott is sorry about this time but Scott being Scott, of course he goes ahead and says, “Derek will come back.”

Stiles stops.

Only for a second, then starts towards the door.

“I don’t care.”

Oh, nice try.

Fucking try again.

“He didn’t leave us – you. I think – it was just too much for him. With Theo cutting his connection to you – not even being able to check whether you’re okay anymore...”

Out in the hallway, Stiles pivots on his heel.

“Derek doesn’t fucking care whether I’m okay. He – it’s _not_ like that, _we’re_ not like that. He just – just pulled a Derek. That’s all.”

His heart is pounding in his chest and when Scott doesn’t respond, just gives him a look full of worry and pity, Stiles snaps and all but yells, “Will you stop looking at me like that?! He’s up and gone again and quite frankly, it’s better for all of us. Can we please stop discussing this every single minute of the day? It’s annoying.”

Also, it fucking hurts.

He starts in the direction of the chemistry classroom and Scott follows, lagging a few feet behind as if meaning to give him some space. He isn’t angry at Stiles.

Because he knows him so well.

And because he’s a werewolf and Stiles is saying more with his heart rate and vibes of stress than with his words these days.

The only thing Scott heard loud and clear was, _You’re right Scott._

_You’re right._

_It was more than a guy crush and if Derek hadn’t left, I’d never found out._

_If I weren’t dating Lucifer, I’d have never known how much I’d like to be with someone else._

_Curl my hands into his silly leather jacket and pull him down to kiss me. Cover these ridiculously perfect lips with my mouth._

“Gotta pee,” Stiles snaps, “ _Don’t_ follow” because his breath is already hitching from suppressed sobs.

Thank God the guys’ bathrooms also have cubicles.

Stiles darts into the nearest one and slams the door behind him.

Locks it, smacks the lid down and climbs on top of it.

Then he’s just squatting there, hugging his knees and trying not to let anyone outside know that he’s hiding in here and sobbing like a fourteen-year-old girl.

God, this is fucking perfect.

Not only is he still nauseous, now he’s also fucking heartbroken.

Yeah, he _does_ think of Derek that way.

Never explicitly but – this attraction, it has always been there and this is the first time Stiles ever really admitted it to himself.

And it’s fucking too late.

God, he wishes – he _wishes_ , he’d never understood.

 

 

His heart is still aching painfully when Theo drives him home that afternoon.

Stiles had to bear the humiliation of having to walk into the chemistry classroom with red spots on puffy cheeks and must have looked extraordinarily doofy, even for him, when trying to hide it. Not that people usually look at him. But Kira frowned and Scott certainly understood.

So, now it’s finally official.

He’s the most pathetic kid to ever walk the floors of Beacon Hills High.

And Theo – Stiles is pretty certain that he caught it as well. He’s silent when he’s driving them to Chipotle, doesn’t drag Stiles inside but just allows him to sit in the car while he’s picking out their food.

Drops a burrito into his lap ten minutes later without a word.

Stiles is still munching on it listlessly when Theo pulls up to his house twenty minutes later.

They walk inside and once again Stiles feels guilty for being grateful that his dad is working the late shift. At least no _'Oh, you look beaten down today, son, what could be the matter? '_

Stiles thinks that maybe he overreacted, too.

When these feelings hit him he got really scared for a second. Or an hour or so.

But he hadn’t factored in his own anxiety, his current stress levels. That stuff usually blows all your feelings out of proportion.

So the reason he's fucking miserable right now and wants Derek to just – just _be_ here and talking with him might be a general expression of his desperate wish for someone, _anyone_ really, to come and get him, be nice and gentle. To free him.

Of this.

 _This_ is looking at Stiles.

“You’re spilling your food all over the floor.”

Theo takes the burrito out of Stiles’ hands. Walks over to the counter, opens one of the cabinets. Takes out a plate. Drops the burrito on it, wrapping paper and all, and puts the whole thing down on the kitchen table.

Then shakes his head, throws him a look like, _Jeez_.

“Being around you is like a fucking rollercoaster. What the hell’s the matter _now_?”

Stiles wants to shoot a mean comment Theo’s way but when he opens his mouth his chin wobbles dangerously so he quickly shuts it again.

Good God.

He really is a mess.

But no wonder, it’s all too fucking much.

All he can do is stare at his sneakers, wishing he could just tell, beg, Theo to leave, whatever is necessary to get rid of him but he’s this close to breaking down sobbing, so no.

Staring down at the floor in dead silence it is.

He can hear Theo move away from the table and come towards him and when his hands wrap around his shoulders, Stiles’ whole body stiffens.

He wants _Derek_ to pull him into a hug, oh great, he fucking is in love.

No, he isn’t.

He’s imagining it.

It’s because he can’t deal with any kind of loss right now, any kind of change, and Derek leaving – _again_ – was the last fucking straw.

It’s because, in his mind, he’s painted Derek as the complete opposite to Theo, the light to Theo’s dark, his aloofness and gentleness to Theo’s obnoxious obsession with him.

That’s all.

That is _fucking_ all, period, end of story.

 _God_.

“Stiles... what am I supposed to do with you?”

Stiles' chest heaves because the way Theo is holding him right now doesn’t feel all too bad. Yeah, he desperately needed a hug and although it’s the wrong person, awfully wrong in fact, Stiles takes it.

Stands there while Theo presses his cheeks into Stiles’ shoulder, has him boxed in with these ridiculously buff arms of his.

“You can tell me – tell me all about it...”

Stiles doesn’t respond.

“Anger I know.... repulsion... but _sadness_? What is it?”

“I just – need time...,” Stiles forces out.

“Okay,” Theo says after a few seconds. “Okay. Time I can give you.”

He lifts his head and rests his chin on Stiles’ right shoulder, his lips close to the shell of his ear so Stiles can feel his hot breath when he says, “I’ll ease you into it, Stiles.”

And he’s holding Stiles’ body flush against his own.

Moves his right hands down from his shoulder.

Lets it rest on Stiles’ hip.

Down, further down, and fucking _ease him into it_?

That's the _opposite_ of giving him time!

It’s only when Theo’s hand is sliding into his pants that are tight, way too tight for that, that Stiles suddenly thinks,

NO.

No way.

This can't be happening.

I averted it, remember?

He can’t just go and have it his way anymore, yes?

It's he, Stiles, who is in control, who gave this monster a blowjob and had him practically begging for more throughout the past days so what is this now? It's not supposed to go down like this.

Maybe he could do it again, Stiles.

Make Theo practically writhe under his touch.

Again.

Do it now.

Or it’s too late.

But Theo’s hand is already touching him down there and Stiles whimpers because he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, please, and the moment is over.

He lost, this time.

He’s not cool and empty and fearless.

He’s fucking scared and miserable and uncomfortable.

It was all an illusion.

He doesn’t have it in him to stay in control, he feels drained and weak and Theo is working him, he’s pulling him even closer and working him and Stiles can’t move. He feels the bulge in Theo’s pants press into his hip and feels the urge to clear his throat.

Clear it again.

What is he doing, what the hell is he going to do because just like that time in the locker room, Theo’s adroit fingers seem to be doing something. It’s all a confusing mess to Stiles and he thinks - he's thinking -

God, this is wrong, so, _so_ wrong but starting to feel really good and Stiles needs to feel good, so desperately.

So he leans in.

Rests his head against Theo’s.

Lets out a sob.

God, he's pathetic.

Closes his eyes.

“You’re liking this? I helped you a little bit there...” Theo is whispering and he sounds breathless and Stiles doesn’t understand.

“Helped...?”

“As much as I love your hurt and pain, baby, I need you to feel better right now,” he breathes into Stiles’ ear. “But don’t get used to it.”

Stiles wants to throw his head back and laugh hysterically because he feels fucking horrible despite the growing arousal. Despite the fact that his breath is hitching in his throat and he’s not even embarrassed about it.

“I don’t want you to,” he mumbles into Theo’s sweater. "Stop fucking messing with my - with me."

“Are you sure?” Sounding mischievous again, less breathless. “Because my fingers are all wet. You’re leaking, baby.”

“But-” Stiles starts and then something horrible happens.

Absolutely fucking horrifying.

The front door slams shut.

It takes him a second to even process the sound.

Before his head snaps up, eyes wide in horror.

There’s a frown on Theo’s face and he says, “Ha. Didn’t even hear the car. Curious.”

And Stiles completely panics.

His pants are open and Theo somehow doesn’t seem to want to remove his hand and while they can hear the sheriff drop his shoes onto the floor in the living room, take a deep breath and say, “Stiles? You’re home?” Stiles hisses, “Get your fucking hand out of there, _get it out_!”

He darts away from Theo and tries to fumble his pants closed but his hands are shaking and the button keeps slipping through his fingers.

Theo just stands there, watching Stiles like this is all really amusing and Stiles wants to fucking murder him.

Just when he gets the job done, hands zipping up his fly, his father is in the door and Stiles closes his eyes for a moment.

He should have run.

Because pants zipped or unzipped, his cheeks are burning, lips puffed up from having been close to orgasming a few seconds ago, he’s fucking sweaty and Theo’s hand is glistening like it’s wet, Stiles can fucking see it.

And, well.

There's this bulge in his pants.

Stiles can feel it.

And he knows it's very visible.

It doesn’t help that his own hands are pulling his shirt down as far as possible now, before Stiles can stop himself from doing it.

Because the only people who do that are people who're trying to hide an erection.

His dad’s reaction, too.

He’s really reading the room, flows along perfectly with the awkward tension because he _blushes_ – God, Stiles has to close his eyes – and stutters, “Wh- what’s going on in here?”

Theo doesn’t make an effort to explain anything which – maybe it's better like this.

There’s nothing good he could have said anyway.

He’s clearly enjoying this. Dropping the bashful act for now, too.

Stiles clears his throat but can’t get his voice to not sound broken, like he’s talking around shards of glass.

“Er, dad – it’s – it’s not how it looks.”

Oh, fucking perfect.

Come up with the archetypal excuse of someone who has really messed up.

Who has just been screwing your best friend or your sister or, simply, a fucking _guy_ , when you walked in.

“Then how is it, son?” It comes out sharply and Stiles swallows. He could really use a confidence boost right now but Theo is just standing there, smirking, and Stiles can see his dad’s eyes dart over to him.

“Is this about Malia?”

Stiles blinks.

Malia?

“What? No!”

It really isn’t.

Stiles hasn’t even been thinking about her anymore for – he doesn’t know for how long now.

“Then what is it about? What are you two up to?”

“Nothing, Sir,” Theo says and the sheriff immediately goes, “Theo, I swear to God-” but Stiles interrupts him.

Defeated.

He doesn’t look his dad in the eye when he says, “Please, dad” – _I can’t deal with you right now_ , but of course he can’t say that because he doesn’t want his father to see how broken he is.

So, instead, he adds, “... I – we... were just – just trying - _something_.”

Oh, God.

His father furrows his brow.

“Stiles, you’re not ten years old anymore-”

“Unfortunately,” Theo throws in cryptically while Stiles says, “I’m still – never mind...”

He drops his gaze down to the tiles.

“Can we please talk about this later? Please, dad?”

Raises his head.

“We can talk about this but – later, okay?”

“Alright, son,” the sheriff says, a little soothed by the pleading look Stiles is throwing him. “But we will talk about this.”

Stiles nods his head up and down, yeah.

Yeah, we will, and I’m not happy about it but I understand.

He starts in the direction of the door and Theo, being the bastard he is, is by his side all of a sudden and curls his fingers around Stiles’ right hand.

Fucking takes his hand, squeezes it once as if to say, mockingly of course,  _Stay strong._

_We can do this, together._

God.

Stiles fucking hates him.

His dad saw it, understood it, Stiles just knows he did but he doesn’t want to stop and turn around to catch a glimpse of the look on his face.

Walks right through it all.

Shakes off Theo’s hand in the dark living room and storms up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, this is perfect.

It’s the small things, right?

You follow Stiles to his room even though he shuts the door right in your face, because of course he would.

He’s crying, too.

You can hear the tiny sobs, muffled by his pillow and it takes you back years and years to that one time.

That one time after you’d done something particularly nasty to him. He’d rushed to his room, this room, remember? And hid under the blankets, curled himself up in them so tightly that you’d have needed scissors to get him out of there again.

Which – you had the scissors.

They were dangling from your index finger and reflecting the evening sun as you were standing out in the hallway, in front of Stiles’ bedroom door.

And you’d made a decision – the most important one you’ve ever made.

Yes, it was right here, in this very spot.

You were about - nine years old, maybe?

Remember.

Stiles was bleeding and crying and you, out here in the dark hallway, scissors in hands - you'd used up all the matches, yes, they were in a small pile of ash behind the house - had to make the decision. Pick the right way.

You had two options.

Look back now.

 

 

_One._

Do it.

Go in and break him completely.

Give in to what your trembling fingers are longing, _aching_ , to do. Sneak inside, cut the blankets away from his body, layer after layer after layer but then do not stop when you get to his skin but cut right through.

Flesh, grease, tendons?

Snap.

Snap, snap.

Dig the blades in, twist, make the mess you’ve been longing for because, ah, sometimes, it’s so hard to keep it neat and clean.

Break the boy.

And it really would, too.

Not because you’d kill him.

You can fix that, right?

But because once you shatter the illusion of control, make him see that he is utterly at your mercy, he won’t be unbroken ever again.

And you can’t feel mercy.

But you’re smart, know the game well, have perfected it.

So take away the boy’s last sanctuary and you’d destroy him.

For good.

Oh, you don’t care about Stiles, no.

But you’d get _bored_.

The secret is to balance it out, hope and fear, pain and bliss, and you know from experience that once you get too greedy, go all the way, you lose interest.

You’d have your human toy sitting there in front of you, blurry-eyed and broken and all goddamn _yours_ and you’d not want it anymore.

Beyond repair.

And you don’t like things that are worn out.

You like them shiny and new again every day, trembling for _you_ , whispering ‘ _please, don’t’_ for _you_ alone like this time you might listen, like it will get them somewhere finally after all this time.

Hope and safety are the two most important illusions, is what I'm saying.

Take them away from him - and you'd erase _Stiles_.

Leave behind an empty shell.

And do you want that?

 

 

_Two._

Keep playing.

Keep Stiles, guard him. Cherish him.

Polish him.

Let him become shiny and new again.

Back away from the door.

Drop the scissors down there, right where you’re standing, not onto the carpet but onto the hardwood floor so Stiles can _hear_ it and he will, he will, even through layers and layers of blanket because he’s listening for it.

Hoping, hoping so fucking much for that miracle.

Then give him his moment.

Hell, give him the day or weekend or week.

Even though he’s wrong, couldn’t be more wrong, let him believe he defeated you because he escaped.

It’s what you had to learn, too.

Humility.

Just because you have this power you don’t have to be showing it off all the time. It will spoil all the pleasure. Stay humble.

Even though Stiles is the one creature you want to know about it, too, sometimes it’s better to withdraw.

 

 

And you did.

You chose option number two.

You turned around that day and walked down the stairs.

Left Stiles with the illusion that by hiding in his bed he can be safe from you.

 

 

And, years later, you know that that's why you still have him, Stiles.

It's why you never really broke him, never completely, _never_ went all the way.

It's about discipline.

Self-restraint.

 

 

You open the bedroom door and walk inside.

He’s in front of you now, looking ready to punch you but also looking so fucking broken and it’s delicious, God.

Fuck, it’s stirring things in your chest you didn’t even know were there.

It’s your human side and you know it, too, and it’s really spicing things up.

So this would be the moment to back away again because Stiles is right there at his breaking point, you can see it, the way his cheeks are flushed in a mixture of hatred and misery and his eyes, God.

These fucking eyes.

Okay now, the thing is this.

It’s different now.

You’d never known – _expected_ to –

Okay.

So despite who you are, _what_ you are in this universe, you’re in too deep already. You let yourself get dragged down into something so utterly human that you yourself – _you_ – are trapped in the web and it’s, God, words can’t describe it.

It’s a fucking rush.

It’s bliss, it’s ecstasy.

Just looking at him right now, his paleness and moles, his nose and cheeks and hair makes you want to touch yourself.

It’s something you’d never known before and the fact that it was Stiles who gave it to you, who first showed you is –

Well.

It certainly makes him special.

Sure, it was _you_ who picked him, who turned him into this, but you have to admit, yes?

You find yourself thinking about his penis and the wish to cut him and burn him pales a little in comparison. It’s still there though.

It always is.

The tug towards scissors.

Your eyes searching the room for something, _something_ to try on him, on Stiles.

But right now - right now, you're looking him in the eyes and you just _know_ that this is the moment.

You _need_ to back off, give him space but holy shit.

You also want to fuck him.

 

 

You’ve seen it happen so often, people screwing around, and it bored you but you were never on this side. Never engaged like this before, never.

There is a difference between observing and being.

You knew how it worked, what it looked like.

In theory.

And that’s the thing.

You’ve never experienced it before and it changed you, you know it.

Scares you sometimes even, yes, you have to admit that.

But then you embraced it.

Moved along.

Made the deal with Stiles.

To know all of it. Understand the human condition to its entirety, finally.

It’s why you chose to walk the earth in the first place.

Lucifer of Earth.

Right?

 

 

“Get fucking out of here!” Stiles hisses and if his father weren’t downstairs, he’d be yelling the words.

“Get out, _get out_ or I’ll _kill_ you!”

You don’t answer, can’t, you grab his wrist and tug at it, oh, he’s yours, he’s all yours.

Try to kiss him and he bites your lip and the taste of your own blood makes you smile as it always does.

You mean to throw him down on the bed, tear of his pants and get your relief, you must have it, you’re _aching_ for it and it will be so good, too, but when you're pinning both his hands to his back you feel it.

The pull at your skin.

It hits you hard.

Wipes the smile right off your face.

It’s like you can hear your own words echoing through time and space.

_I can’t hurt you, I won’t hurt you, not phsycially, won’t hurt you._

An endless loop, reverberating in your brain.

Singing in your blood.

You made the deal.

You stick to it.

The realization is almost too much.

You’re panting and your dick is aching and you want to, you want to touch him, _need_ him, God.

You need him so badly.

This feeling in your chest?

It’s unbearable.

You’ve never longed for anything, not like that ever anyway.

But it’s the right thing – the deal is smart. It’s why you made it, yes?

Because it’s perfect.

So you back off.

Drop his hands.

Move backwards in the direction of the door.

You’ll soon be glad about it, you know that, yes, you’ll soon see you did - the deal made you do - the right thing.

Because it would have broken him.

And you don’t like broken things.

You like them shiny and new.

Forever changing, never the same.

And Stiles is the most _alive_ thing you’ve ever known.

“We finish this today,” is all you manage to grit out and your voice is shaking. Then you’re out the door.

And you meant it, too.

But when you’re out of the house you know it’s not the truth.

That you won’t be able to make it and you start running.

You can move quickly among the shadows of cars and trees and houses, one of them.

When you’re in the forest, you shake off your human form and are, once again, glad, that you chose _this_ vessel, a supernatural one – and a particularly strong and agile one at that.

Not rapture but a grim kind of satisfaction.

You made the right choice.

Always.

You move faster as a coyote, flick through the forest. When you’re far enough from the city, from anyone and anything, you must have been running for more than half an hour total but it’s _still_ there.

It’s still fucking there and it’s agony.

You shift back into your human form, completely naked now, all muscles and raging erection and you let out a whimper and a long, drawn moan.

Drop down to your knees on the forest ground.

God, fuck.

Wrap your fingers around your dick and start jerking your hand up and down, violently, not even caring if you rip your skin open or not. The anger that it’s not Stiles who’s doing this, combined with the tension, the primal _need_ to bury yourself in him, are almost unbearable.

But you _chose_ this.

You wanted this agony and you throw your head back into your neck, bare knees sinking deeper into the wet ground, breath coming in short, hissing pants, like screams.

Scream you would if you had it in you right now.

Close your eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles is pacing his room.

What is he going to do, what to say?

Before he’s even halfway made up his mind, calmed down even a little bit, there’s a knock in his door. A soft, “Can I come in?”

Stiles darts across the room, throws the door open.

He didn’t really mean to but it’s the stress, the anxiety. Transforms all of his movements into clumsy jerks and jumps.

“What is going on, Stiles? Please, you have to tell me.”

Stiles is already shaking his head.

“You’re clearly not alright, so what is it for God’s sake? Should I call Scott? Because I will if you don’t tell me this instant-”

“I’m not straight,” Stiles blurts out, “Dad. Okay? I’m not. How you thought I am.”

The sheriff takes a deep breath. Walks over to Stiles’ bed and sits down on it.

Rubs his forehead.

“That’s all, Stiles?”

When he looks up, Stiles can see that he’s exhausted.

The eyes of a man who’s seen far too much and half of it supernatural so Stiles nods immediately and vividly, yes, yes.

Yes, that’s all, I swear, that’s all.

The whole fucking story.

Another sigh from his dad.

“That’s not – did you _really_ think I’d have a problem with that?”

He sounds exhausted.

“So much so that you thought you have to hide it?”

Disappointed.

Oh, no.

Stiles can’t fucking do disappointment right now.

“Maybe _I_ have a problem with it...,” he mutters and he flops down next to his dad. “It’s just – I feel weird.”

There is a silence.

Then Stiles says in a low voice, cheeks burning with shame, “When you just walked in – I didn’t know you’d be home so early – Theo was kind of – jerking me off.”

His dad lets out a frustrated sigh.

“You don’t have to tell me that. God, Stiles. I really didn’t – I could _see_ that, for God’s sake.”

Then, quickly, “I mean, not literally _see_ , thank goodness. But it was obvious. You’ve never been good at hiding things, Stiles.”

Stiles goes “Mh.” then falls silent.

They sit there for about half a minute, staring ahead, thinking.

“Did you – is that what you want?”

Stiles shrugs.

Time for lie number two.

Or – is it really?

“Yeah, I – it’s different from a girl. I think – I think I like both... er – it might just be, you know. A phase. Or something.”

“Oh, Stiles,” and his dad finally turns to face him. “Don’t say that. It really, really doesn’t matter. There’s a ton of stuff that’s so much worse than – just today I had to knock on some woman’s door and tell her that her daughter died in a car crash this morning. It was a fucking nightmare.”

He lets his head sink into his hands.

“It’s why I went home early. It was just – too much. Sorry I took it out on you – I was certainly not in a good mood when I walked in and I – I shouldn’t _say_ that but that Theo kid-”

“You hate him,” Stiles says.

“So much,” his dad responds with a crooked smile.

Stiles goes, “Ha...,” shakes his head, can’t help but smile faintly back.

He’s calmer now.

This went better than expected and he feels – okay with this out in the open.

“Well, this shouldn’t influence-”

“It’s okay, dad. Really. I used to not like him – in fact, I sometimes still don’t. The fact that he’s Malia’s brother...”

“Oh, right.”

His dad frowns.

“What’s up with that?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Don’t know. Just – just happened. Before I knew it, we were fooling around in her – _his_ bedroom, er, he kissed me and... I don’t know...”

Now they’re both rubbing their foreheads, at a loss for words.

Painfully aware of how awkward this is.

“Still, better than if you'd come home with, I don’t know.... Greenberg, or anything. Coach Finstock,” the sheriff offers and Stiles goes, “Eeew, _dad_ , come on! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Just saying. There’s worse. Ahem... how’s Malia feeling about this?”

“Mh... I don’t really know. She’s okay with it, I guess? She was the one who broke up with me, after all.”

Another silence and they’re both thinking the same thing.

How Theo had always been unnaturally fixated on Stiles – thank God the sheriff doesn’t know the extent of it – and how maybe his sister had seen that she was somehow in the way.

It’s the first time Stiles ever thinks of it that way.

Looks at it from this perspective.

 

“So... what now? Theo and you – are you two dating now?”

Yes.

“No. I thought... I’ll just see where this goes. Is this weird?”

Oh God, it’s so weird, you have no fucking clue.

“No, it isn’t. It’s legitimate, especially at your age. Better than to grow up and wonder forever. Miss the moment, you know.”

He puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder, gives it an affectionate squeeze.

“I just – it’s not how I ever saw myself and, like, don’t know - what to be like, now.”

The truth, for once.

Surprisingly, his father’s face relaxes into a smile.

“Oh, that’s easy. You’re just Stiles.”

Stiles turns to him and nods, slowly, yes.

It’s actually that easy.

Just Stiles.

Sounds good to him.

 

 

Theo hasn’t been in school for the past couple of days and, according to Malia, hasn’t come home either and Stiles wonders.

It’s a different kind of wonder from when he was thinking about Derek – actually, he still wants to know where Derek is.

But they’re both gone now and Stiles is finally relaxing a little again.

Starting to heal slowly.

Gets back two As and a B on his tests, a pleasant surprise. Talks with Scott and the others about how this school year seems to just drag on and on _and on_. How it feels like they've been in twelfth grade for _years_.

And then, on a Wednesday after lacrosse practice, when they walk out into the parking lot, it’s just sitting there.

Black against the dark blue and reddish sky, it’s Derek’s Camaro.

There it is, in the almost empty parking lot, next to Stiles’ dirty blue Jeep.

And leaning against his Camaro, sunglasses, white teeth, perfect hair and all, is Derek.

Scott immediately goes, “No way, Derek’s back, whooooooo!”

Stiles who’d been laughing and joking earlier just falls silent.

Then they’re walking over to him and Derek is looking good.

He got tan. Or maybe Stiles is just imagining it.

Anyway, he takes off his sunglasses. Smirks at them all.

Nods hello.

Derek and Scott hug and then Liam is there, too, and Mason, and they greet him, a little shyly, but happily nonetheless. He is sort of their big brother, after all.

After a few minutes of _Where have you been’_ s and _good to have you back’s_ and _oh, my God, these sunglasses are super douchy_ (that’s Scott’s comment, of course), Derek finally turns to Stiles.

He gives him the most open smile Stiles has gotten from him in, well – maybe ever.

Who knows.

He certainly couldn’t care less right now.

He takes a step in Derek’s direction, then another one, then shoves him with both hands, with as much force as he can muster, so hard that Derek stumbles backwards, almost slams into his car, drops his glasses.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been, you asshole!? Huh? What on earth were you thinking, just – _pissing_ off like that? And then, not even an apology? We could have used you here, you jerk, we – just-”

And he throws his arms up in the air, like he’s too upset to even put words to it.

Derek looks – well, shock would probably be the best word to describe the look he’s giving Stiles. Like he absolutely didn’t see that coming.

The others also have bewilderment written all over their faces.

Well, everyone, except for Scott, that is.

He looks composed when he says, “Why don’t we give you guys a minute. Liam, Mason, care for McDonald’s?”

Mason rolls his eyes.

“Scott, you know that I _never_ care for McDonald’s...”

But they all turn around and leave, only throwing one or, maximum, two glances back at Stiles over their shoulders.

“Stiles, what – what on earth is the matter with you?”

“What – what’s the – are you fucking kidding me right now?”

God, he wants to slap Derek so badly.

He feels like he really, really wronged him.

And he says so, too.

“You let us down, Derek. That’s the matter. You – you did it again, you just – up and left. And I really wonder what goes on in your brain whenever you do that. Do you just, like – wake up in the morning and go, _mh, gee, I haven’t disappointed my pack in a while now, it’s about time, har har_. Or what? Mh?”

Derek blinks.

Moves his shoulders for his leather jacket that had peeled halfway off in Stiles' attack to slide back into place again.

“That’s your best impression of me?” Frowns. “I don’t talk like that.”

Stiles jerks his head, throws his hands in the air like _I’m waiting, stop trying to lighten the mood, it’s not working_.

And Derek sighs.

Runs his hand through his hair.

“Jeez, Stiles... I was gone for two weeks. Not two years.”

“Yeah, well, you might’ve as well,” Stiles says, corners of his lips pulling downwards. He’s still fuming and no, this is not childish at all.

He has a right to express his feelings – the feelings of the whole pack, that is.

Because Derek let all of them down.

You don't just leave whenever you feel like it, it doesn't matter for how long.

It's irresponsible.

Something could have happened.

They could have needed him.

“I just visited my sister.”

“Oh, don’t even-”

“Cora? Skinny, dark hair, horrible manners?”

“I’ve met your sister, yeah.”

Arms crossed over his chest like wanting to signal that he won’t let Derek wriggle out of this one.

“Yeah, so, I felt like she needed my help with a few things.”

“Aw, how great. And it never even crossed your mind to call or leave a note, like, not even once, no?” Stiles is shaking his head when he says this, grimacing, and Derek lets his hands drop down to his side. He looks at a loss for words and it gives Stiles a grim kind of satisfaction.

Serves him right.

“I – sorry,” Derek starts, slowly. “I wasn’t aware-”

“Well, you should’ve been.”

“I – I figured if it wasn’t for long, you know – I would have called had I gone back to Mexico.”

“Fucking awesome, Derek. You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and go right now? You wouldn’t even have to bother calling since I’m, like, right here, you just tell me and you’re good to go.”

And he demonstratively turns around to walk away.

Remembers that his Jeep is parked next to the Camaro and turns around again, muttering, “Need to go this way,” under his breath and that seems to do it for Derek.

Stiles doesn’t even know what hit him.

One minutes he is staring dead ahead at his Jeep, determined to hop in and drive off. Maybe cry a little on his way home.

The next, Derek is wrapping his arms around his chest and pulls him back into a bone-crushing hug.

Stiles goes, “Woah,” as he’s almost being lifted off his feet. Turns around in Derek’s arms to hug him back.

Acknowledging that yes, this was exactly what he wanted and he can even deal with the light pull of magic piping up on his inside. As long as they’re hugging, it won’t grow stronger, there’s no danger and Stiles says, “Just – never – okay? Do that again,” his voice muffled by Derek’s jacket.

God, this feels so good and so right.

Just where he should be which is, yeah.

It’s fucking heartbreaking.

But he doesn’t think about it now, just leans in, feels the pull growing a little stronger, a little more uncomfortable but bears it. Is not freaking out like the last time it happened.

“Sorry,” Derek says over and over again. “Sorry, Stiles. I wasn’t aware. I’m so sorry.”

Then lets go of him and when they look at each other now, it’s like the wall that has been growing between them?

It’s almost gone.

Which is great.

At the same time, so fucking horrible.

Because he and Derek, they can never become – what has Danny called that?

A thing.

But oh, alright then. Stiles doesn’t need that. No, he doesn’t. Derek’s back, he’s sorry and that’s that.

It’s enough.

Stiles probably isn't even _really_ in love or anything.

No, looking at Derek right now, he thinks he just really missed him. It’s a fine line between bro-hood and being in love with someone, Stiles is thinking.

Ok, yes, fucking _yes_ , he does have a legitimate crush on Derek Hale.

Because, like, this leather jacket? The curve of his jaw line, the dark hair and hazel eyes, strong arms and broad shoulders?

The way his voice sounds when he says ‘ _I’m sorry, Stiles_ ,’ chipped and full of emotion.

Fucking hell, the man is gorgeous and Stiles missed him like crazy. He’d missed him even when Derek had still been there but they hadn’t really been talking.

But whatever Derek’s feeling. Like, who knows.

Who knows why he’s not being a sourwolf right now but is genuinely smiling at Stiles, even though Stiles actually _physically attacked_ him five minutes ago, and is looking more relaxed than Stiles has seen him in weeks. Maybe even months.

Maybe ever.

Probably his sister, lots of daylight and healthy food.

Whatever.

Yeah, whatevs, still. It’s great, Stiles thinks.

And Theo’s not even around to spoil it.

There’s no pressure there and Stiles can just imagine Derek _returning_ his crush maybe _a little bit_ , maybe just the tiniest bit.

Then Derek ruins it by saying, “Sorry, Stiles. You know you’re like a brother to me, you guys all are, and I – I didn’t want to let you down.”

Stiles’ face slams shut.

What a painful blow after this surge of happiness.

Derek acknowledges the instantaneous change in Stiles’ facial expression with a confused frown because, yeah, as always, Stiles’ face is like an open book. Not in the sense of, he’s thinking this or thinking that but rather in the sense of: _happy, in a silly mood, about to crack a dumb joke, uncomfortable, really uncomfortable, pained, pained a lot, stress, more stress, etc_.

“What – what’s wrong?”

Stiles shrugs. Forces his face to relax into a smile again and says, as calmly as possible, “All good, Derek. I – sorry I jumped at you. Ahem – sorry you got dirt and dog poo all over your sunglasses.”

“What?!”

And Derek immediately bends down to inspect his glasses. Then sighs and rolls his eyes at Stiles who gives him finger guns.

Derek picks up his glasses.

“You’re still your doofy self.”

“Yup. I am. Doofy and awkward Stiles. It's my thing.”

Derek’s lips widen into a smile again.

“I’m glad.” He nods his head, once. “No, I’m genuinely glad, I was worried,” then stops himself. “Never mind that now. Er... How’s Malia?”

Stiles blinks.

What an odd question.

“She’s – also good, I guess?”

Derek nods, slowly.

“Alright, I should – probably stop by her place. I’ve been sort of worrying about her. With the whole – Theo thing and all...”

Stiles’ gets a cold look on his face but Derek doesn’t see it.

He mumbles something about driving over there right now, asking Stiles whether he wants to come, then saying that it’s probably better if he didn’t because of Theo and all. Rubs his sunglasses clean with his brown t-shirt.

Stiles feels himself nodding his head up and down, going, “Yeah. Yeah, sure. No, you do that. Absolutely.”

They must have said goodbye but Stiles, somehow, doesn’t remember it when he’s sitting in his Jeep five minutes later, driving himself home.

God, that was a wild ride.

Furious, bursting with joy, a little less joyful, fucking miserable.

He can see what Theo meant when he called his emotional life a rollercoaster.

So Derek and Malia.

Well, she’s gorgeous.

He’s gorgeous.

It just – fits.

Stiles can’t believe he never thought of it before.

He never saw them together except at pack meetings anyway but from what he just caught from Derek’s embarrassed ramblings, he’s been taking care of her lately, throughout the whole Theo crap.

That’s just – great.

Not that Stiles would have needed his support or anything.

I mean, it's not like _Stiles_ is the one who's in the fucking center of this horror.

 _Don’t be unfair_ , he tells himself while steering down the road to his house. _Malia has been really suffering and you know it and you wanted her to feel better._

Yes, Stiles even wished for someone to come along and take care of her. Someone new she could fall in love with.

So, there.

He got his wish.

Besides, would he rather have Derek vanish forever or that he’s here in Beacon Hills with them and dating, yeah, Stiles’ ex-girlfriend but someone who is also one of his closest friends?

Second one, definitely.

He parks his Jeep, wrenches the car door open – this is getting harder and harder every time, he really needs to fix this – jumps out onto the grass.

No time for sadness, let alone heartbreak.

Stiles gives the neighbor’s cat a tired smile.

Walks up to the front door, then starts rifling around in his bag for his keys.

Derek’s back.

Yay.

Right?

 

 

 

And so is Theo.

He walks into the classroom on Monday morning as if he hadn’t just missed a whole week of school. Seems like he deposited an excuse with the teachers though because they all smile at him and say stuff like ‘ _Glad you’re feeling better Mr. Raeken’_ and ‘ _You’ll catch up again in no time_ ’ and Stiles thinks it’s almost hilarious.

Yeah, Theo’s such a badass alright.

But then he really is because his number one rule is, as Stiles very well knows, No matter how much you hate it, _always_ play the fucking game. Your future You will thank you.

Theo throws him a look then walks right by him to his usual seat in the back row.

Even says “Looking good, Janine,” half-heartedly and, oh, Janine.

Poor girl, blushing wildly and who knows what Theo would have done to her without the pact. She’d have been the first to go down in a feast of gore and blood in the slasher movie that Beacon Hills would have turned into.

As it is, all is still well below the surface, unusually calm.

Even Stiles’ dad dropped a comment on the matter just last night. About how this past month had been the longest time he’d gone without coming across yet another supernatural abomination that scared the shit out of him. Well, he hadn’t said it exactly like that but, you know, along those lines.

Stiles had understood.

And it's okay for him that Theo is back.

Besides, Stiles never really expected him to just stay away, not for longer, anyway.

With their pact, there’s literally nothing Theo can do out there to entertain himself.

Stiles goes, “Ha!” when the thought crosses his mind that Theo might always accept a human life, fall in love and start a family. You know, settle down. The idea is hilarious.

“Would you like to comment on that, Mr. Stilinski,” Mrs. Hunt is saying coolly and Stiles shakes his head, mouthing, “Nope, Ma’am. Uh-uh.”

Then, and he doesn’t really know why, Stiles turns around. Meets Theo’s eyes who’s looking at him directly.

Caught, quickly turns back again in his seat and finds Scott staring at him so he goes, “What?”

Then, for the rest of the period, just focuses on his textbook and the odd maps with which Mrs. Hunt is covering the blackboard – “Sorry, Ma’am, is that a dog?” – “That’s Canada, Mr. Stilinski.” – and scribbles down notes.

 

 

“So, are you going to tell me where you were or would that ruin that mysterious-son-of-a-bitch thing you’ve got going on there?”

Theo slams his locker shut and turns to face Stiles.

He’s looking perfect as ever. Buff, handsome, smug, the whole package. Maybe the tiniest bit more hollow around the cheeks than when Stiles last saw him.

Theo huffs out a small laugh, like “Ha,” and shoulders his bag.

“What’s the matter with you today, Stiles? First you look me in the eyes and now all this talking to me voluntarily? You’re really full of surprises...”

Stiles shrugs, leaning against the lockers.

“Figured it’s exhausting to pretend like you’re not there. What with you having such a presence and all.”

Theo shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips.

“Tss... you’re just...”

“What?”

Frowning, Stiles pushes himself away from the lockers with his elbow and almost loses balance for a second.

Smooth.

“I’m what? No, go ahead. I can take it. Last week’s Stiles is not this week’s Stiles.”

“Obviously,” Theo says.

Pauses, the expression on his face growing more serious.

“I fucking missed you, Stiles.”

“Oh,” Stiles’ mouth hangs open.

Did not expect that.

“Okay,” and then, “History’s next, so” and he turns around but, for the second time in twenty-four hours, two strong arms slide around his shoulders and pull him into a tight hug. He can feel Theo’s chest move into his, Stiles’, back as he inhales deeply.

The people around them are staring, looking almost as surprised as Stiles.

Oh, great.

Public display of affection.

Stiles’ favorite.

Fucking worse than a display of chopped off arms but okay.

He can take it.

This week’s Stiles, and so on.

“Well, look at that....,” Theo says with his head resting against Stiles shoulder. “You’re clearly not drugged and yet, no anxiety. No additional anxiety, I should say, there’s still your regular stress levels.”

“Just – being relaxed today. Playin’ it cool. And stuff.”

Theo lets out a laugh and finally removes both head and hands.

“God, you’re such a doofus... unbelievable.”

Stiles chuckles nervously.

“I should disappear more often.”

“Yeah, talking about that, where have you been?”

Theo sighs and they start walking down the hallway. Stiles can feel about twenty different pairs of eyes following them.

“You’re really scared I’m up to something, mh,” Theo says and Stiles quickly shakes his head but can feel his heart beating more quickly and Theo pats his shoulder. “Ah, there we go. Anxiety. Worry. STress. So I’m right.”

Maybe, yeah.

Stiles is having a great day with Derek being back and all – yes, despite the Derek and Malia thing, and besides, he still has the hug Derek gave him yesterday, right? – and he just wants to prevent Theo ruining it.

Take precautions.

Besides, he was bound to relax a little, even around the Devil himself.

It’s what happened last time, too.

After a while you just go back to normal.

“Well, couldn’t you guess?” Theo is saying while they’re slowly climbing the stairs. Suddenly, Stiles is wondering where Scott is, whether he saw Theo hug him, what he’s thinking now.

Aw, there goes his good mood.

Fucking great.

“Why should I? Guess what you’ve been up to, I mean. How would I know what you like? Maybe – catching butterflies with your mouth? Dunno, really.”

“Well," Theo starts, slowly. "Since you didn’t give me what I wanted and it’s impossible for me to get gratification anywhere else, I had to withdraw. I thought you figured that out for yourself, Stiles. Or I’d have broken the deal, you know? I was just out in the woods around Beacon Hills, mostly in animal shape but not always.”

Stiles stops and frowns.

“So, what you’re basically saying is that you were running around the woods naked and jerking off all throughout the past week?”

Theo lets out a laugh again.

They walk into the History classroom and there’s Scott and he’s shooting Theo a hateful glare but Stiles ignores it.

He’s thinking.

So, Theo was about to break the deal?

That – that means, without the deal he’d have – gone and raped Stiles?

Stiles swallows.

And now his anxiety levels are definitely up where they were before.

For a moment there he had almost forgotten that Theo was fucking creepy.

“You alright?” Scott says and Stiles nods.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

It’s just strange to see how his brain works sometimes.

 

 

But, despite everything, Stiles really is better, even this afternoon.

He parks his Jeep on the gravel in front of the Tate house, hops out and walks over to the front porch, soles of his sneakers making the familiar scrunching noise with every step he takes.

Man, he’s walked up to this house so many times, and in all kinds of mood.

Fidgety and uncertain of whether Malia was really into him.

Cheerful, silly, relaxed and happy. Admittedly, half of the time it had just been horny.

Recently, scared, terrified.

Today’s mood would probably rank as _okay_.

Zero, maybe leaning towards a negative one or two out of ten which, well.

Stiles is probably the person most surprised by that.

And he expects his mood to drop to a minus five, at least, very soon but – what he’s doing here, it’s just smart.

Catch Theo now while Stiles still feels stable.

Feels like he can deal with it.

Let Theo do a few things. Stiles has to, after all, respect their pact. Theo can’t just hold him down and fuck him but neither can Stiles really reject him.

It was dumb luck that Theo had apparently been so turned on last week, his needs so utterly opposed to those of Stiles’ that he had to withdraw. But he’d have never, _never_ broken the deal, so.

Yeah.

Sort of logical, the way it went down.

It makes a lot of sense to Stiles.

He grabs the handle and wants to pull at the screen door when he throws a look over to the peach tree in front of which Mr. Tate has always kept a few kitchen herbs. Parsley, sage. Rosemary.

Thyme.

Stuff like that.

He can’t spot anything small and green and leafy though because a black car is parked under the tree, right in front of where the herb bed should be.

Stiles’ heart almost stops.

Then picks up a crazy speed, like it wants to beat out of his chest.

It’s a Camaro.

How could Stiles not have spotted Derek’s car when he pulled up to the house?

He certainly didn’t expect it to be sitting there, looking completely out of place in the rather shabby front yard. That might be a factor here.

“What – the...”

“Are you coming in or not?”

Theo is holding the door open for Stiles and must see all the color drain out of Stiles’ face. His gaze is still glued to the Camaro, he just can’t seem to be able to avert his eyes.

“What – what-”

“Derek’s here,” Theo says, grimacing. “Or what did you think it meant. And, man,” he frowns, “your heart’s beating like crazy.”

Narrows his eyes. Throws a dark glare at nothing specific, grits out, “This dude.”

They’re almost in Theo’s and Malia’s bedroom when the kitchen door opens and there they are.

Malia who says, “Hey, Stiles,” almost inaudibly and gives him a faint smile and Derek who has his hands in the pockets of his tight black pants. Also says, “Hey,” after a short pause.

He looks a lot gloomier than he did the day before and no wonder.

Stiles registers him standing close to Malia, closer than would be normal for two people who are just friends. From here it looks almost as if Malia’s back is touching Derek’s chest and for the first time, Stiles remembers the fact that they’re cousins.

Well, true love can’t be stopped, yes?

What was left of Stiles’ good mood is certainly gone, gone, gone now and he just shakes his head at Malia’s question, no, no he already ate, really, but thanks, then quickly follows Theo into the room. Doesn’t even wait for him to close the door but slams it shut himself.

Theo lifts his eyebrows at him.

“Fucking annoying,” he says then and walks over to the desk. Looks at an open book that’s lying there, probably to memorize the page number. Flips it shut.

“So are they like – dating now?”

Stiles voice comes out all chipped and hoarse. He clears his throat but it doesn’t make the lump go away.

“Why would you care?” Theo says, coolly.

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say. He thinks that Theo might already be guessing it anyway. With all his brilliance and supernatural senses and knowing Stiles way too well.

“Just want to make sure, Malia’s okay,” Stiles says.

“How – can Derek even be here?”

Don’t fucking say his name, idiot.

You know your heart skips a beat every time you do it now, it’s why Scott somehow won’t stop grinning knowingly whenever they’re talking about him. Why he keeps dropping Derek’s name randomly into conversations like, _Man, Finstock’s heart is the same color as Derek’s leather jacket. You know, black?_

Or, _Did you get the Math homework done? Derek. It was fucking impossible, especially the one on page 53. Derek. A nightmare, if you ask me_.

But who knows what Lucifer might pick up, really.

“Pheniel took away his omicron powers. Or, lifted them, I should say.”

“What?”

Stiles certainly didn’t expect that.

“Yeah, now the dude’s back to being a regular beta. Weak, boring and still an insult to the ground he’s walking on.”

His lips pull down in disgust.

“If only I could make him vanish,” pausing like he’s considering this, “But no, I can’t. Deal forbids it.”

“What?” Stiles repeats. “Phenuel is – he’s here? Like – on this planet?”

Theo shrugs.

“Yeah. I always thought so.”

“But- but-”

Question after question suddenly pops up in Stiles’ brain.

First of all, the guy is supposed to be his, Stiles’ guardian angel. The last thing Stiles knew was that he just barely managed to transfer a part of his powers onto Derek before Lucifer banished him from Earth. Then the death of Stiles’ mom banished Lucifer.

Then Stiles underwent the resurrection ceremony, ritually sacrificed his life for the Nemeton and Lucifer was free.

But what about Phenuel, then?

If he’d been here all this time – why not just protect Stiles himself?

Why let Derek struggle with the task and leave Stiles so poorly protected – why let Stiles make a deal with the Devil? Again, the dude was supposed to protect him.

Unless – _unless_...

A horrible thought is forming in Stiles’ brain but is interrupted by Theo saying, “I’m guessing he is gathering his forces. He has dissolved the deals with all the other omicrons, too, lifted his powers off them. I checked.”

“What?” Stiles goes again.

Theo rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, Stiles? You’re exceptionally slow today.”

“There’s other omicrons than Derek?”

Theo shrugs.

“Of course? What were you thinking? That Derek is somehow special? Farniel had a whole army of omicrons parade around you, Stiles. Your neighbor’s fucking cat is one of them, for Christ’s sake.”

“Snuzzles?”

The suicidal thing that would always jump onto the hood of his car and hiss and scratch at the windshield wipers when Stiles was about to either pull in or out of his driveway?

Then another thought strikes him.

“So I did hit it with the Jeep!”

Oh, damn.

“Yeah, you did,” and Theo laughs, “you fucking killed the thing at least twice. But being an omicron and invested with angelic powers, it-”

“Just came back to life,” Stiles completes the sentence and flops into the computer chair, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“So... that’s what you were really doing.”

“Of course, it is, Stiles. Did you really think I spent a whole week masturbating and hunting rabbits?”

And then, his eyebrows going slowly up, “I’m not you, after all,” at exactly the same moment that Stiles shoots out, “I’d have done it.”

Theo smirks.

Shakes his head at him.

“You ate rabbits?” Stiles says, slowly, kind of a bummed out expression on his face. “And – why would Phaniel need his powers back now? Where is he, how did he manage to come back? Why didn’t – why didn’t he contact me?”

“I have my theories. We’ll see.”

Stiles is swiveling around in the chair, staring at the ceiling.

“Anyway,” Theo starts again. “I didn’t lift my defense against fucking angelic powers shield around you, just so you know. With our deal, it’s especially strong.”

“That sounds like something that's being taught in Hogwarts,” Stiles is saying slowly, lost in thought. “Except for the cussword. And... is that where Derek went? To seek out Phanuel?”

Stiles knows even before Theo nods his head.

“Yeah. I guess so. Or the other way round. Anyway, he’s visibly more relaxed now that he’s – detached from you again after all these years. Still, snooping around here like the son-of-a-bitch that he is...,” and his face darkens. “Is just so like him. Getting in the way, even when it’s none of his fucking business anymore.”

Stiles feels like crying.

Derek lied to him.

He lied to him before he fucking hugged Stiles and apologized to him. Visiting his sister, my ass.

The man really has a knack for ruining even the most random nice thing he does. Maybe his smile had been genuine, and the same probably goes for his apologies, Stiles wouldn’t want to doubt that. They are pack mates after all. But everything else...

Why didn’t Derek just tell him?

Stiles knew he was being a burden.

He wouldn’t have been mad at him.

Right?

Why not say: _Stiles, I couldn't fucking bear being connected to you like this anymore so I spent two weeks hunting down an angel and forced him to dissolve our pact._

“Do you want to make Derek pay?” Theo says and his voice is suddenly very close to Stiles who starts and lets his head snap back up.

“Why, er, ever would I want that?”

“Oh, don’t think I don’t know. I’ve seen the way you look at him before anyone else has, Stiles.” And then, voice perfectly calm and composed, “And you wouldn’t believe how much I wanted to fucking hurt him for it.”

“You can’t,” Stiles says, stupidly, and Theo’s expression hardens.

“Oh, don’t be mistaken, Stiles. I still can.”

And, closer to his ear, halfway squatting next to the chair now, next to _him_ , “You came here for something specific. Didn’t you?”

Stiles sets his jaw.

“Alright then... I’ll spell it out. You showered. You even brought the lube Mason gave you.”

“How-”

“Don’t fucking underestimate me.”

Theo turns Stiles around with the chair, grabs both his hands and pulls him to his feet.

Stiles somehow can’t find it in him to look him in the eyes.

There’s no going back this time.

“No interruptions. I made sure of that,” Theo says, confirming what Stiles’ had already guessed. He knew Theo had pulled some kind of magic trick to keep Derek and Malia from entering the room.

“And because I waited so patiently for this, I erected an additional barrier. So they can’t leave the house. Trapped in this dump for as long as I want.” His lips twist into a grim smile.

“Special treat for me.”

Stiles closes his eyes.

“But – wouldn’t that,” he clears his throat, “qualify as – torment?”

“Oh, good point, Stiles. As a matter of fact, no, it wouldn’t. After all, by keeping them here with us, I’m protecting them. There’s wild things outside, you see...” and he nods his head over to the window, nudging Stiles to take a look outside.

Stiles walks over to the window, puts his hands onto the frame, and stares out into the darkness. All he can see for a few moments are the woods, dark yet patterned by the lines and dots of gravel and veins of leaves and bark of trees.

When Stiles catches sight of something flicking past the window, he shudders.

God, he knows these things.

They’re really dense shadows, nothing more, big as cars but somehow the night seems ablaze with an odd, reddish gleam. Like it’s on fire, but in a different dimension.

“Hellhounds,” Theo says and Stiles closes his eyes in horror for a moment, “The most loyal of all servants. I called them just to have a reason to trap Derek here. They’re waiting to drag everything human down with them and they’re even allowed to do that, Stiles. I’m still the Lord of the Lands of Fire, after all.”

“Hell,” Stiles corrects him with a hoarse whisper. He throws another look outside. There must be at least ten of them out there, scaring rabbits and deer to death, galloping over the parked cars with invisible hooves and flitting around Mr. Tate’s peach tree.

When Stiles was a kid, out of all the monsters Theo summoned to show him, these things had most terrified him. Looking back now, Stiles thinks that the most horrible creatures had all been spirits of fire and brimstone, their eyes terrible and flaming and dark as coal pits, their horns pillars of smoke that were curling and uncurling from the shadow structures of their enormous heads. Stiles had always thought they bore a strong similarity with the Red Bull, the beast that has driven all the unicorns into the sea except for one, and the first thing Stiles had ever been consciously afraid of. The film had given him his first ever nightmare, the first one he remembers anyway, when he was about five years old.

Maybe that’s why Stiles had preferred the little abominations Theo created by breathing flames of life into roadkill to entertain himself, mangled bunnies and dogs with oddly twisted limbs and exploded torsos.

Stiles starts when Theo’s warm body is pressing against his back.

He’s still watching the beasts of hell spiriting over mounds of grass and the roots of trees, their auras setting the night on fire and coloring the moon blood red.

“There is a beauty to it, isn’t there?” Theo breathes into his ear. “It’s the big secret, too, balance. Light and shadow, good and evil. See how they’re dancing around each other? They can’t be separated.”

Stiles wants to make a snide comment, something along the lines of, _oh, shut up and write a sonnet, for God’s sake_ but, somehow, his lips won’t move.

Theo is right. It’s beautiful.

Beautiful and terrifying.

Probably Theo’s two favorite things.

His chest is hot against Stiles’ back, burning, really. It’s only slowly dawning on him that Theo isn’t wearing a shirt anymore.

Stiles slowly turns around, tries to duck away from the heat of Theo’s body.

And, yeah, so are his pants, socks, shoes, basically everything that would have spared Stiles a look at Theo’s muscles and, well, erection, all in a pile on the floor next to his bed.

His body is glowing in the darkness and, well.

Stiles hates to say it but – yeah. He looks – _okay_. He – yeah. Stiles would even use the word _perfection_ but, well. Theo’s not Derek.

“When did you-”

“It’s a magic night,” Theo says and when he smiles this time, flames seem to be dancing across his face and Stiles tries to back away and bumps into the window.

When Theo kisses him, Stiles moves his head as far back as he can, skin pressing against the cool glass but then thinks, oh, what the hell.

He can’t escape.

It’s Walpurgis Night out there and besides, the demonic powers wouldn’t let him anyway. He needs to fulfill the pact, feels the forces tugging at him powerfully, creating, for the first time ever, a sort of longing in the pit of his stomach that is utterly opposed to his strong desire to run and hide.

His repulsion has even ebbed away a little.

Stiles eases into the kiss and when he presses his eyes shut he can even try and forget that it’s Theo who is curling his tongue around his. Is biting his bottom lip, Jesus Christ.

“Ouch,” and Stiles breaks the kiss, hand going up to his mouth.

But Theo doesn’t respond, just motions for him to move already, walk over to one of the beds and Stiles obeys.

Tries to not look at Theo’s dick and, God, how the guy even has muscles down there.

He’s obviously moving too slowly, because Theo grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him down onto the floor in front of the bed. Then he’s tugging at Stiles’ hoodie, tries to pull it over his head, let’s out a growl of frustration when Stiles pushes his hands away.

He sighs, closes his eyes.

No going back.

No going back now.

And pulls all the layers over his head, shirt and hoodie, in one swift move. Then he’s sitting there, staring at the carpet in embarrassment, crossing his hands in front of his chest.

“Pants,” Theo grits out. “What’s taking you so long, _hurry_ , for fuck’s sake.”

Stiles looks up to him, expression going from mortified to cold within a second.

“Only at my pace, asshole.”

Theo glowers at him.

“I waited for fucking forever for this, Stiles, don’t you dare-”

They’re probably both feeling the pull at the same time because Theo’s mouth snaps shut and Stiles’ hands go down to his pants and, before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s unzipping them already. Pushes them down over his hips and then he’s shuddering, almost fully exposed to Theo’s gaze who rakes his eyes over every single one of his moles, or so it seems.

Just for the heck of it, Stiles pulls off his socks, too, wants to push them away from him but then doesn’t. He really doesn’t want to unfold his feet.

His boxer shorts and knees are the only barrier from the thing in front of him right now and Theo – well. His hand went down to his own dick and he’s probably not even conscious of it either.

There’s a surge of heat in the pit of Stiles’ stomach when he watches Theo’s fingers wrap around himself.

He quickly looks away.

God, this – this is happening.

But when Theo all but jumps at him, has already grabbed him by the shoulders and his fingers are digging into Stiles’ skin painfully, Stiles remembers.

He fucking remembers and he can’t believe he even forgot about this, for as much as a split second. He pushes Theo off of him with as much force as he can muster, going “Wait. Stop!”

The other doesn’t answer, just narrows his eyes like, _why the fuck are you still talking_?

Stiles clears his throat, keeps his eyes averted. He knows the answer before he even asks the question but still.

Still.

He just _has to_ ask.

“Before we-,” pauses and swallows, “Can you make that Derek can’t hear us? Please?”

A pause.

Stiles thinks he can hear a sizzling and crackling, like embers burning outside.

Like the whole fucking forest is on fire.

And for all Stiles knows, it might be.

Theo is squatting in front of him, palms of his hands on the floor, left and right to his legs. His face is unmoving but his eyes are strangely alive.

He looks so otherworldly that Stiles can feel the adrenaline surge, hear the sound of his own blood rushing through his body, drowning out the sound of flames but he still catches Theo’s answer.

“No.”

And then, voice all hard and cold. “I want him to fucking listen.”

Stiles moves his jaw and finally manages to force out, “Okay. Alright, so no it is. Just like that, really? I mean-” His voice is really shaky now because Theo is leaning in, is clearly aiming for his mouth but this conversation isn’t fucking over yet.

“But if you don’t snap your fingers and soundproof the room, nothing will happen in here. There’s some board games over there in the cabinet and, I swear, I’ll make you-”

“Stiles,” Theo says in a low voice and it sounds so threatening and Theo looks so furious, Stiles immediately shuts his mouth. “You can’t fucking blackmail me. Don’t even try.”

And he grabs Stiles’ knees and forces them apart.

“Hey, what-”

Before Stiles knows what’s happening, Theo has curled his hands into the fabric of his boxer shorts and is dragging them down over his hips.

“Hey, you – fucking – _stop_ that-”

Stiles tries to pull them back up, tries to kick Theo or at least get away from him and he’s glad that at least no one is watching this. He must look absolutely pathetic, the way he’s clinging to the last bit of fabric that’s protecting his dick from the fucking Devil’s claws.

But of course it's no use.

After a struggle of maybe thirty seconds, Stiles is sitting there, completely naked.

Theo extends his hand and drops the boxers down onto the carpet. He still has this dangerous expression on his face like he might snap any second but then, of course, his lips twist into a mean grin,  _of course_ they do.

“I usually appreciate your effort to get away from me, Stiles, but I can’t have it now. So you either cooperate or I’ll petrify you in the position I want you in. I don't need kanima venom to do that.”

“Well, first of all, you’re not even _allowed_ to do that,” Stiles says immediately. He has crawled away from Theo, is crouching by the bed now, frame pressing into his naked back.

“Try me,” Theo says and Stiles swallows.

Stares at him.

He really doesn't want to - he'd rather be able to move.

Cooperate and retain at least a little bit of agency for himself here.

So he breathes in and out again.

Tries to calm down.

Then nods and says, “O- okay. Alright. I’m – yeah.”

Theo doesn’t smile. His face looks strained like he has to make a real effort to not shift and drag Stiles onto the bed with his teeth.

“So how – how should I-”

“ _Stiles_!” More a snarl than a word, really, but Stiles still catches it, no, okay, he got it.

Message received.

Loud and clear.

“Okay, okay, okay. _Okay_.”

And he unfolds his legs and arms and looks over to Theo, decides that he can’t bear it. The dude looks really dangerous right now, so no eye contact whatsoever it is.

Works for him.

“Bed,” Theo hisses and Stiles turns around to climb on top but a hand grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back with such force that Stiles is sent flying back onto the floor.

Hits it hard.

“AH! Ouch, _God_! What the fuck-”

“ _On your knees_.”

Oh, boy.

Theo’s eyes are glowing yellow and orange and Stiles could swear there’s a tinge of red in them as well. He stumbles onto his knees, thinks about it for a second then puts his hands onto the mattress. He thinks he knows what Theo is going for here.

But Stiles might just die of a heart attack before that.

“Ok, so... so you could send your hell beasts back to – to hell,” Stiles voice comes out shrill and high and shaky. God, he’s so fucking scared right now. He needs to keep talking.

Talk through it all, Stiles.

Usually Theo would put on a smug smirk and say something like, _But their whole point is to let me keep Derek and Malia inside and torment them without breaking the deal so why would I possibly want to send them back?_

But Theo just snarls, a low and frightening sound and Stiles knows that he’s already far gone. Keeps his eyes glued to the wall when Theo manhandles him into the right position. Then closes his eyes when he feels him rub up against him, his dick pressing against Stiles’ butt, their thighs touching.

“So, no foreplay or anything, not even _Jesus Christ_ ,” he cries out because Theo is pushing his dick against his butt and the thing is so hard it already hurts, and Stiles feels like he's already bruising, it’s ridiculous, and Theo is tugging at Stiles’ hips, too fucking aroused to even know what he’s doing.

The fucking maniac.

“Hold on for a second, that’s _not_ – stop that, it _won’t_ work like that.”

Stiles turns around and holds up his hands.

“Just wait – for half a minute, okay? Just – give me a few seconds.”

He starts slowly moving in the direction of the pile of clothes on the floor while Theo falls back onto his ass and he’s fucking panting, rubbing his forehead. Stiles has never seen him like this before.

He’d lie if he said that it doesn’t give him a kind of grim satisfaction to see him this helpless, this desperate.

Hey, wait a second.

Maybe he can yet turn everything around.

Pretend like, _yeah, yeah, I'll let you fuck me_ but _then_ \- go for a blowjob instead.

It was enough last time, too, right?

Ok, he can pull this off.

Just move quickly and try to keep calm.

Stiles reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and fishes out the tube of lube.

Then he crawls over to Theo – the very last thing he wants to do but, oh well.

It’s not like he has a choice here.

“Let me – let me _help_ – okay?”

He grimaces and extends his hand to grab Theo’s dick, is already bending his head but Theo slams his hands down on his shoulders hard.

“Fucking _no_ ,” he grits out and he looks really pained now, face all distorted, veins pulsating on his throat and arms. “ _Inside_ you.”

Stiles swallows.

“O-okay,” voice cracking.

Well.

Worth a try.

His fingers are trembling when he unscrews the tube. He squeezes some of the green stuff onto his index and middle fingers and because his hands are shaking he spills half of it, has to give the tube another squeeze to get enough of it onto his fingers.

Then just stares down at it.

He really doesn’t want to do this.

And, man, that stuff has a really strong smell. It’s like wrapping yourself in a piece of spearmint gum. It bites his nose and makes him sway a little.

As if Stiles didn’t already feel like vomiting.

He's right in front of Theo now.

Their knees almost touching.

Both of them naked, and it's so weird.

A mixture of horrible and really awkward.

Like, one second, Stiles feels like a rape victim. Like he got dragged down into the psychopath's rape pit and is at his utter mercy now which - is not so far from the truth. It's terrifying and nauseating and just - completely freezes him on the inside.

Then, the next, he feels like the teenager he is, experimenting with a friend, and they just went from horny to really awkward to _what the fuck are we even doing here?_

 

So, yeah.

This is a mixture of both.

And could it get any stranger?

Aware that they've been sitting there for a minute in silence, Stiles swallows. He expects a rough shove, a barked command, _what's taking you so fucking long?!_ , but, surprisingly, is met with perfect silence from Theo.

Stiles dares to raise his head.

Theo is watching his every move.

He seems calmer now. His eyes are glued to Stiles’ face.

“Come on,” he says now, sounding more like himself again which is – which is good, right?

Really hard to say.

Horny and out of control or calm and plotting.

Pick your favorite Theo.

Stiles can't.

He hates them both so much.

“Come on, Stiles," Theo says and it sounds more urgent now, forced.

"Do it.”

The lube is dripping from Stiles' fingers and he looks down at it.

Knows exactly what Theo wants to see.

He holds his breath without really knowing why, then reaches around to slide his fingers in between his butt cheeks.

God, this is fucking awful.

Theo is watching like it’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen and now Stiles’ face is on fire and, good God, why, why does he have to do this?

 _Because you made the fucking pact. Because you’re the biggest idiot on the face of the planet_ , he tells himself and tries to slip his index finger in but finds that he can’t.

Not with Theo watching like this.

He’s just too – tense.

So he closes his eyes.

Tells himself to relax.

Come on, just – easy.

Imagine you’re at home in your room.

Alone.

Think of – boobs.

But his mind is a total blank.

He still manages to work his finger in about an inch and he doesn’t know whether it’s the lube, whether he’s allergic to it or something but it burns like hell.

He grimaces and pushes his finger in further, has to lean forward a little to do it and he can hear Theo hiss out a breath.

 

God, this is awkward and - painful.

They sit there like this for about five minutes, Stiles fingering himself, suppressing the sobs that try to make their way to the surface because one, he’s so uncomfortable, he wants to die and, two, this fucking hurts, burns, and he thought he’d be done with fire, no more fire, it’s what Theo promised, yes?

And Theo, completely naked like Stiles, with a raging hard-on, staring at him.

Watching.

Huffing out small breaths like he’s so fucking turned on by this.

When Stiles finally unclenches his eyes – he has two fingers inside himself, only the tips but that’s enough, and he can feel the muscle slowly relax around them – he can see that Theo’s hands move up to his dick, once, then again, but he forces them down onto the floor again every time, buries his palms in the carpet.

When their eyes meet, Theo breathes, “That’s enough.” and then, “Come here, Stiles.”

Stiles lets his fingers slide out and hisses because _why the fuck is it still burning like this_?

Theo’s already in front of him and Stiles quickly turns around before the other can grab his hips again. There’s red imprints of Theo’s fingers on his skin already and Stiles can’t shake the thought that before this night is over, he’ll be sore and raw.

Everywhere.

Oh, goody.

Can’t wait for that to start.

His heart is fluttering, he’s waiting for the pain.

At least the wait and fearful expectation isn’t long. Theo doesn’t let it drag on and on.

For some reason he is more composed now, seems to have himself under control a little more because he doesn’t shove his dick all the way in at once.

Good thing because Stiles would have screamed and Derek – would have heard him. So would have Malia.

Stiles hopes to God, no, prays, _begs_ , that Malia has turned the radio all the way up in the kitchen.

But had she done that - shouldn’t he, Stiles, be able to hear it here in the bedroom, too?

Theo puts his left and right hand onto Stiles’ hips, yeah, thought so, and presses his dick up against his butt and this time, the tip slides in effortlessly and Stiles lets out a gasp and a whimper.

 _God_. This is going to be so fucking painful.

Their pact is evil. How on earth does this not qualify as torture?

Theo doesn’t stop. He just pushes his dick in, slowly, yes, but without hesitating and while he lets out a long, drawn moan, Stiles’ chest is already heaving with sobs.

“Ah. God, _fuck_ ,” he forces out, “s-slowly, please, not so – ah-”

 _Jesus_ Christ.

Who knew this could hurt so much?

And then, Theo slides out and in again and he’s already trembling, shaking, and it’s enough.

Stiles presses his teeth together, almost bites through his lip and Theo spills inside of him. Stiles' eyes wander over to his pants on the floor. There’s two condoms in the right pocket but it’s too late now.

He can already feel it dripping out of him and sticking to his thighs and it’s the most disgusting feeling ever.

Stiles lets out a sharp breath, hopes that the burning sensation will not linger.

Lets his head fall back into his neck.

Stares at the ceiling while Theo's sperm is trickling down onto the carpet, white drop after white drop.

 

 

There is a room above this one.

It’s a small attic room, barely big enough for an adult to stand in and it’s crammed with stuff.

All the things that the Tates didn’t need anymore and then, after his wife and daughters died, Mr. Tate couldn’t bring himself to ever throw away.

He never goes up here.

No one does.

So the things just sit here all by themselves.

Old hairdryers, a rocking horse, lots of boxes and worn suitcases and things wrapped in newspapers. Photos in frames, leaning against a wall, at least fifty of them. On a low dresser, piled on top of each other in an open cardboard box, dolls in torn little dresses, cracked ceramic heads on their small torsos.

A teddy bear with yellowed stuffing hanging out of a slit in the belly. It’s sitting on one side of an old dollhouse that is, like everything else up here, covered in a thick layer of dust.

It’s sitting in the middle of the room like it’s its core. The center to which everything here relates.

Look at it more closely now.

It’s beautiful.

With its little windows and pillars and balconies coated with white enamel, roof red and green ivy climbing up the wall. There’s curtains in the windows, with pink and red flower patterns. Hinges on the right indicate that the front could be opened. The rooms would be big enough for any of the dolls to sit at a tiny table or a miniature sofa.

Sitting on the other side of the dollhouse is Mr. Tate.

He’s leaning against it, his head sunk onto his right shoulder, almost touching the dusty roof. His mouth is still screwed open and, it’s weird, there’s dust in it and on his teeth, there’s a layer of dust on his eyes, too.

As if he’s been sitting up here for just as long as the other dolls have.

One of _them_.

 _One_ of them.

Maybe the dust just settles a lot quicker up here than anywhere else in the world because next to Mr. Tate, back resting against his left shoulder and feet splayed like a rag doll, is the man in the blue track suit and he's covered in dust, too.

Immobile just like everything else.

Unbreathing.

His face is so cheerful, mouth pulled into a broad smile, wrinkles around his eyes.

He wouldn’t fit in the dollhouse though, the chairs would be too small, the tables too tiny.

You’d need a bigger house to play with him.

 

 

 

A few feet down in the room below, Stiles tries to moves his hips away from Theo, so his dick would slide out of his butt.

“So, that took you five seconds,” he coughs out because, as always, his mouth is quicker than his brain and Theo reaches around his hip, pulls Stiles’ back flush against his chest so he can’t move away from him.

“Dude, you’re heavy.”

Stiles’ knees are already feeling sore, from the way they’re digging into the cheap plastic carpet.

But Theo doesn’t answer. He’s inhaling and exhaling, trying to catch his breath and his dick is still inside of Stiles and it still fucking burns and why the hell is it still in there?!

The whole thing was fucking disgusting and the most uncomfortable Stiles has ever been in his life but, thankfully, Theo came after what couldn’t have been more than half a minute and they’re done.

It’s over.

So why the fuck.

“Get off of me,” Stiles mutters and tries to pull away from him but Theo is starting to move his hips. His skin feels hot and sticky against Stiles’, probably the combination of sweat and sperm and Stiles almost gags.

“Oh no,” he mutters when he feels Theo’s dick inside of him - _feels_ it, like it's growing again.

Theo picks up a slow, lazy movement. Lets an inch slide out of Stiles, then pushes it back in.

“You can stop now, this wasn’t the deal.” Then, pleadingly, “Come on. Please. This fucking hurts. I can – we can do this differently. Please. Theo. _Stop_.”

Theo does stop.

His fingers are still digging into Stiles’ hips painfully but he halts the movement of his hips.

“And what would you want to do?”

Wow, a full sentence.

Yeah, dude really, _really_ needed that orgasm and, God, the stuff is still dripping out of Stiles.

“What would... I want to do?”

“What would you give to me so I won’t keep fucking you? Tell me, Stiles. Tell _him_.”

“What?”

He doesn’t really want to know.

Don’t say it.

Please, don’t say it.

“He’s listening.” A short pause. “They both are.”

And Stiles closes his eyes.

“Sitting at the kitchen table. Haven’t spoken a word in half an hour. They can hear every single fucking breath you’re taking, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t help it, a sob escapes his mouth.

“So tell us – draw us a picture.”

Stiles shakes his head, no, no he fucking won’t you cruel son-of-a-bitch, never, never.

Never.

So Theo thrusts his hip forward, shoves his dick all the way in and, caught by surprise, Stiles cries out.

Immediately slaps his hand over his mouth.

Laughter from Theo and Stiles – Stiles wishes _he_ were supernatural so he could turn around and rip his fucking dick clean out of his body.

But he can’t.

He can only take the thrusts and Theo’s voice comes out ragged, cut up.

“Come on, tell them, Stiles. Tell them all about how you dropped to your knees in front of me, and because you wanted it, too, and sucked me off like a good boy. How you smiled at me while doing it. How you’d do it again.”

It’s ridiculous, how even Theo’s dirty talk is meant to hurt Stiles, hurt Derek especially, and they can already hear them fucking, God, hear Stiles’ pained whimpers that still come out no matter how hard he's pressing his right hand down onto his mouth.

He’s almost on the floor with his chest now, supporting himself with his left hand and right elbow, struggling for balance, and Theo feels huge and hot and hard inside of him and he’s picking up speed, and it hurts, good God, it hurts, it hurts.

Fire and brimstone, holy shit.

When he hears Theo grunt, breath hitching in his throat, Stiles knows they’re done talking.

He’s gnashing his teeth, biting down onto his bottom lip, alternates between saying, “No, please, _no_ ,” and crying out in pain when Theo starts thrusting into him with more speed.

More force.

Stiles can see stars in front of his eyes and, really, this isn’t torment?

This isn’t fucking torture?

Just because Stiles has to let him do it, Theo is still raping him, and he seems to enjoy the tension. The fact that Stiles has to contribute. It’s what seems to make this even more delicious for Theo.

Theo is leaning over again, lowering himself down onto Stiles’ back without putting his full weight on him and while still moving inside of him, he goes, “You feel, _ah_ , God, _ah_ , _holy_ – fuck, you’re so – _perfect_ , Stiles.”

Then he does the one thing, the one fucking thing that could have made this whole mess even more horrible than it already is, more painful.

More humiliating.

He reaches around Stiles’ hip with his right hand. Then wraps it around his limp dick.

Stiles immediately starts spitting out insults, trying to pull away from him with a much force as he can, although he’s feeling so weak, raw and open and just – _pain_.

“You fucking bastard. I want to fucking murder you, you – _ah_ ,” but Theo’s thrusting into him roughly now and Stiles’ sentence is cut short by a yelp of pain. He doesn’t think of Derek anymore. He thinks of not fainting.

Theo is stroking him, the movements of his hand clumsy and erratic, he’s so fucking turned on, so incredibly close to the edge.

And, God, when is this ever going to end.

Make it stop.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

There’s a choked sound from Theo, a mixture of a laugh and a moan.

At this point, speaking has become almost impossible for him. Again.

“We’ll – do it – together – this time. You – don’t know how – this gets me – going. _Stiles_.”

I can feel it, Stiles is thinking, God.

I can fucking feel it.

 

 

 

_“No, Theo, stop.”_

Someone is panting.

Skin scraping over plastic, getting rubbed fucking open on the carpet.

The smacking noise of sweaty skin against skin, among the most nauseating of all the sounds.

_“Please stop, it hurts, it hurts.”_

A cry of pain, like “Aaah” that turns into, “ _God_.”

“Derek?” someone is saying, a soft voice, so much closer to him but all Derek can hear is Theo’s voice, and Stiles’ voice and, yeah.

The sound of the two fucking.

Derek is petrified.

He can’t move.

Wants to slap his hands over his ears, wants to fucking claw into his own skull and rupture his eardrums, for God’s sake, but he can’t move.

It’s like listening to Stiles huffing out pained breath after pained breath is the only thing telling him the boy is still alive. The closest Derek can come to control over the situation right now.

This will be his fucking nightmare for the rest of his goddamn life.

Sitting at the kitchen table, locked into Theo’s fucking dollhouse, listening to Stiles getting raped.

The flames outside this time.

Oh, the irony.

The forest is being engulfed in shadow fire and here, inside, it’s cool and safe but what’s important to Derek, what he wants to protect, cradle, fucking _own_ , is being destroyed nonetheless.

Is being used, fucked raw and sore.

He can _hear_ it.

Theo’s dick sliding in and out of his – of _Stiles_.

And he tried getting into the room, oh God, did he try.

They both did.

While Stiles was still talking to Theo inside and it was only slowly dawning on Derek what was to come.

When Theo started undressing, Derek started losing control. Malia did, too.

Soon they were hissing and throwing themselves against doors, walls, fucking clawing at them with all they got. But from what they could follow of the conversation inside, from the way things just went down – turned into this – Derek knew.

They both did.

The sound just went one way.

It's a fucking funhouse of horrors.

No sound of Derek or Malia calling out to Stiles, trying to break through, pleading with Theo, offering themselves, went in.

Stiles’ breathing and sobs came out and with their supernatural hearing, they're still there, all the sounds, even the tiniest rustle and faintest cry.

Derek was tearing out his hair, screaming, dropping to his knees.

Then, when it started, Malia just took Derek’s hand.

Pulled him away.

Sat him down at the kitchen table.

And they’ve been here ever since.

“Derek.”

Malia puts her hand over his own. “You’re breaking the table.”

Derek turns his head for what feels like the first time in years, his neck is stiff, and he looks Malia in the eyes. Then down to his hands. His claws, that is.

The wood around them has cracked and splintered and dug into Derek’s skin but he doesn’t care, oh God, he wants to feel the pain.

Or nothing at all.

He wishes he were dead.

“You know he can’t kill him,” Malia is saying now. Her hand is still covering his and she’s giving it a little squeeze but Derek just blinks at her.

“He can’t torture him anymore, he-” but she falls silent.

Maybe heard how ridiculous it sounds.

Because now Stiles is begging Theo to take his hand off his dick, to fucking stop touching him, to stop, to go away, to please stop, take what he needs and be done with it.

To kill him.

And Theo’s moaning now, it’s a low sound, almost a snarl, followed by quick breathing, ragged, choked sounds like he’s right on the edge.

They just sit there.

Sit and listen, wait.

After a while Malia says, “It’s over.”

And repeats it.

“It’s over. Let’s go to him.”

 

 

 

“Stiles.” Theo’s breath is hot against his ear. “Baby?”

Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. His butt is throbbing with hot, flaming pain, hips, knees, bridges of his feet, elbows, all sore. His penis still limp.

He didn’t come.

Didn’t even get slightly turned on.

And Theo was too far gone to focus on what Stiles would need to get hard, his thrusts too erratic to do anything but damage.

When he threw his head into his neck and cried out, Stiles knew it was over. Was too numb to feel it but he knew from the way Theo’s fingers dug into his skin and he started trembling, so he just flopped to the side and Theo didn’t even catch him, couldn’t, really, because he was fucking shaking with his orgasm, not hearing anything, not feeling anything else.

It's almost funny.

How he used to preach control to Stiles when this – this seemed to sweep him clean off his feet. Yeah, he’s the fucking King of Hell but then gets so turned on by this, he doesn’t even know what hit him.

“They can come inside now. They’re coming here,” Theo is saying now, then, again, “Baby?”

“Don’t,” Stiles forces himself to say but, oh, he doesn’t want to speak.

His mouth tastes like blood.

“They can’t see me like this.”

There’s a rustle and the sound of Theo walking across the carpet.

Then Stiles gets wrapped in a blanket and he whimpers when Theo moves him. Finally opens his eyes and is met with a look on Theo’s face like – confusion.

Worry?

Yeah, Theo looks fucking _worried_ alright.

Stiles wants to slam his head into the floor and laugh and laugh.

But even breathing hurts so, no.

Not today.

Theo’s furrowing his brow and he says, “Stiles?” a little louder now and then another voice is calling out his name and she sounds hysterical, almost.

“Stiles? Oh God, Stiles! Oh God, oh God, oh no.”

Malia is sobbing wildly and she’s squatting down by his side. There’s tears and snot running down her face and she tries to cover it with her right hand but it’s shaking heavily so she’s not doing anything except for getting strands of hair stuck to her wet cheeks.

He wants to tell her he’s okay but he feels like he ran out of energy.

Can’t speak.

Just close his eyes.

Theo picks him up and snaps, “Don’t even come close,” and then, “Derek!”

All Stiles can think is, God, _no._

_No, no, no, no, no, not him._

_Not like this, no._

Theo is carrying him out of the room.

A few moments later he puts him down again.

Tells him that he needs to clean him up.

Says something like _'Holy shit, Stiles, did you bite through your lip?'_

The light in here is too bright.

The bathtub too hard.

When he opens the blanket, he lets out a surprised hiss, Theo.

“What the-,” he mutters and then falls silent.

There is a long pause.

So long in fact that Stiles opens his eyes a little, just cracks them open the tiniest bit. When they get used to the light he opens them wider and again, there’s Theo.

He’s still naked and his body is glistening with sweat. His hair is messed up and sticky and he’s staring at Stiles, is moving his eyes over his body, over the damage he did.

It’s weird, so utterly out of character even.

But then, Stiles starts thinking.

Is it really?

Didn’t little Theo also whisper sweet apologies, tell him softly that he was sorry, so sorry, when Stiles was sobbing and clutching the wound Theo had inflicted on his chest, his wrist, his thigh?

Even apologized when he went too far?

Once, he’d given in to the rush and accidentally broken several bones in Stiles’ right arm. As soon as Theo had heard the awful crack, he’d stopped, eyes wide. There’d been this expression of horror on his face that a little kid would get who played too hard with his favorite toy and then accidentally broke it.

No, he wasn’t without emotion, Theo.

He was just twisted.

All wrong.

Stiles closes his eyes again, waits for it to happen.

He doesn’t have to wait for long.

A hot palm presses down onto his sweaty chest.

And, getting sucked into it, getting reeled in inch after inch after inch, is the pain, the soreness, the raw and open flesh.

Stiles inhales.

Feels like he can finally breathe freely again.

Theo just fixed him.

Not because Stiles would have bled out or anything, no, he didn’t go that hard on him, Theo. Didn’t rupture his colon, didn’t tear his sphincter. It was just large bruises and sores and scratches.

But because he went too far, measured against what he’d _meant_ to do tonight at least.

The way Theo is still staring down at him now.

Stiles doesn’t have to open his eyes to see it.

He knows exactly what it is that’s unsettling Theo.

Yes, he knows him that well.

It’s the loss of control that comes with this.

Usually, Lucifer makes a plan to hurt and hurt he does.

Wants to mangle and kill. Does that, too.

Covers Stiles skin carefully with wound after wound after wound, like he’s following an intricate pattern that’s already laid out in the human brain he’s borrowing.

This though.

Theo doesn’t even know what this is.

Hadn’t planned for any of this to happen, not like _this_ anyway, and yet.

Yet.

Happen it did.

 

 

Theo removes the blanket from under him, then picks up the shower head.

It’s one of these cheap, plastic things and it’s all but falling apart. Stiles knows it well from the showers Malia and he took together after fooling around, Malia calm and cheerful and Stiles just freaking happy that he got some.

When Theo deems the water neither too hot nor too cold, he starts letting it run over Stiles’ legs, then moves further and further up his body to wash blood and sweat and sperm off the healed skin.

Knees.

Thighs.

Penis.

Stomach.

Chest and hands.

Finally face and hair.

Soon Theo is rubbing at his skin with a sponge carefully, like he could do any damage now, it’s ridiculous, and while Stiles is getting all cleaned up, is on the best way to being new and shiny again soon, he imagines himself back months and months, back in the tub of ice water, getting held down by Lydia and telling himself to not struggle because he could shake her hands off so easily and ruin the whole thing.

What he hadn’t known when he climbed into the tub was this.

The ceremony had already begun and because of that it wouldn't be like drowning at all.

So as soon as Lydia pushed him under, he wasn’t scared anymore and knew exactly what to do.

That moment was sheer bliss.

How he opened his eyes and lungs and breathed in.

Relaxed into death.

 

 

As the water is streaming down his face, Stiles lets his head rest against the ceramic and imagines himself back there and powerful.

He’d resurrect all of them.

Start with Allison.

She’d spring up from the ground, laughing and beaming, brown hair flowing around her.

Next is Derek.

He’d make him all new, heal him, let him forget.

Then Scott, his dad, Malia.

Take away their pain and what they’ve seen and were forced to do.

All the others, the victims and casualties, Derek’s family, even Victoria Argent, and finally, finally his mom.

In the bathtub of this dollhouse with hell beast dancing around them, Derek and Malia in front of the door, one sobbing, the other staring ahead with a blank look, and Theo scrubbing at his body in complete silence, Stiles is doing a ceremony until everything, _everything_ is good again.


	22. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night's echo. Stiles finds himself a new voice to fill his head with. Derek is unable to, somehow. Video games with Scott, then more games with Theo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, my dear, wonderful readers - I loved every single one of your awesome and carefully crafted comments <3 you guys are the best - and I'm happy about the kudos I'm still getting on this story  
> you make me want to keep writing & I hope you'll like this chapter and will enjoy reading it (or be deeply unsettled which is really the effect I'm going for here)
> 
> again: big (!) trigger warning - this chapter contains a scene that may be revolting to some readers - if you're among the faint-hearted (as I am on certain days), please do NOT read (or just skip the part, it's towards the second half of the story)

 

 

 

“Shadows present, foreshadowing deeper shadows to come.” ( _Benito Cereno_ )

 

 

 

 

 

The water though.

It’s like Derek can still hear it running down Stiles’ body, washing off sweat and sperm, pooling in the tub and pouring into the drain, taking it all off his healed skin like it never happened when Derek _knows_ it fucking happened, will always see it in Stiles’ face from this day onwards.

The blood from his lips, too.

Derek had caught a glimpse of Stiles’ face when Theo carried him out of the room, had also smelled it on him. It hadn’t been much – just a thin stream that had been smeared across Stiles’ chin by the back of his own hand when he’d tried to wipe it off during – earlier.

And when they were out of the room it was still there on the floor, Stiles’ blood, droplets of it sunk into the fabric of the carpet and hugging the synthetic fibers and Derek can smell it, or he thinks he can, imagines it there, but he can’t really focus on it because it’s just so fucking loud in his head that he can’t sense anything, can’t feel, smell, _hear_ a thing over the sound of the goddamn water running, running, running, running, running, running.

 

 

 

 

Theo is driving the Jeep.

Fully dressed again, of course, but hair tousled and lips fuller somehow, redder, cheeks slightly flushed. It’s the unmistakable, seductive look of someone who just had orgasmic sex.

He is gazing out into the night, a soft smile on his lips.

His calm, smug self again, apparently.

“Has anyone ever told you that your Jeep is a piece of trash?”

He lets his gaze drop down to the wheel.

Then up again.

“This thing is not only loud, it’s a lethal hazard.”

Stiles has his face turned away from Theo. He’s staring out into the darkness and if you went around the car – a sort of tricky undertaking at 70 miles per hour – and pressed your face flat against the side window, you’d see that his eyes aren’t focusing on anything out there, like he’s lost in thought, like he lets the whole landscape just pass through without even realizing it’s there.

He doesn’t react to that soft chuckle either, doesn’t blink an eye, even though, from experience, Stiles should know that that’s something to watch out for, be alarmed by.

It usually means that Theo is thinking of something that amuses him.

And with him, that’s never a good sign.

Even if he isn’t plotting, what he’s thinking about, what puts a smile onto these perfect lips is usually deeply unsettling nevertheless.

“You know, Stiles...,” Theo’s saying now, lips wrapping gently around every syllable, “I almost... _don’t_ miss gutting people... when I can have you like this.”

A look over to the passenger seat.

Eyes back on the road again.

“For now.”

Stiles, of course, doesn’t react and Theo, well.

He frowns.

A few more seconds of nothing from Stiles and he sets his jaw.

It’s like his senses just won’t fucking tell him whether Stiles can hear him or not but, oh, Stiles can hear him alright.

It’s like Theo suddenly acquired banshee powers. Even the softest whisper hits Stiles like Theo just slapped him.

He wants to cover up his ears, slide further away from Theo even though he’s already on the edge of his seat but the gear shift between them is just a lousy barrier and he has considered pushing the door open and hurling himself out of the vehicle at full speed twice.

It’s not like he’s so scared right now.

No, not at all, see, that’s not it.

Because the horror part?

It’s in his past already, done with, over for the night.

Stiles has put that behind him.

And nothing could be more horrifying than what Theo had managed to pull off so.

No, Stiles isn’t particularly anxious right now.

He just doesn’t want to listen to this guy anymore is all.

His voice is making Stiles nauseous, it feels like bugs crawling around under his skin. Every time Theo just breathes in and out it’s like he’s yelling at him.

And these audible sighs, he’s doing that a lot right now because Stiles is not even physically reacting to his words, his heart rate speeding up or his stress level rising.

Nothing.

Like Theo’s not even there which -

He can’t have that.

Like he’s irrelevant and that’s the only thing Theo will never live to be.

He will not be ignored.

So he says, voice all cold and sharp suddenly.

“Just get a grip, Stiles. You’re being pathetic.”

It’s like these words broke the spell.

Stiles is not tearing up but his eyes are suddenly moist, like it’s the verbal cruelty that finally got to him, not all the stuff that happened before, and Theo gives him a nod, face relaxing a little.

Like saying, what exactly did you expect Stiles?

What kind of an outcome did you think you were in for?

That you’d somehow be spared, protected?

That you’d turn out to be special, purer than the others and that’s why he picked you – and that’s what you’ll eventually turn against him, use on him, causing him to make mistakes? Small ones, at first, so tiny he himself won’t notice until – until it’s too late.

But you’re not special.

There’s no such thing as purity either.

Oh, you thought that’s how this story would go down, that you’d be taking him down with the sheer goodness inside of you, that unspoiled, untainted part that cuts through his darkness like a blade and that he, Lucifer, had felt so attracted to, and that would finally, in the last reel, become his demise?

This is not a horror movie.

Or, maybe, just in the back of your mind, you’d considered – were bold enough to consider the possibility that he might fall for you – _change_ for you, despite himself, become more human?

This is not a teenage romance either, one of these more twisted ones that you’ll find in the dark corners of the internet.

You literally made a deal with the devil.

Nothing good could possibly come out of that, not for you or for anyone.

It may be your story but it’s not your game, Stiles, and, in your heart, you always, _always_ knew.

You knew it, made the deal anyway, had to, even, got to live with it.

So, yeah, get a grip already, Stiles.

Get a fucking grip.

 

 

Theo follows him into the house even though Stiles, he –

Aw, hell.

What the fuck ever, man.

At this point he doesn’t even care anymore.

So, Stiles, he walks in, slides out of his shoes, throws his jacket someplace, he doesn’t even know where it lands, will certainly be looking for it tomorrow but right now?

Oh, man, the house could be burning to the ground around him and he would still be going to bed right now, staring ahead into the darkness of the living room, stair case, hallway, with this determined look on his face and blinking not often enough, mouth a grim line.

Well, look at that.

Ten minutes since he told himself to get a grip and he got a grip.

He’s not anxious, he’s not stressed, he’s – calm.

The eye of the fucking storm.

When he walks past the bathroom, however, what he realizes is this.

There’s something wrong with this calmness.

It’s not – he shouldn’t be feeling so _sick_.

Like the whole tension, stress, guilt, hatred, _pain_?

It drained out of his heart, even his brain, and there’s no more ache, no intrusive images or anything, but then it all just pooled in his stomach, somehow.

He’s almost past the door when he knows he won’t make it.

Turns around and darts into the bathroom, almost faceplants onto the tiles, sprinkling them with blood from his nose, lips, forehead, finally _physically_ feeling the hurt again that Theo took away from him.

And funny, how you can still vomit and the stuff hurts, _burns_ , coming up your throat even though you haven’t eaten in hours.

He feels like hell.

God.

Like he’s finally coming crashing down now, his eyes watering, his knuckles stretching _whiter_ when his fingers clutch the toilet seat, hold on to it hard like they want to melt into it but are _still_ trembling.

And even though he’s kneeling in front of the toilet, feeling like he’s dying, he can still _hear_ Theo let out the softest sigh, it’s ridiculous.

As if in exasperation.

Then he follows it up with, “Stiles...” and, we can only assume, a shake of the head.

It does nothing for Stiles except heighten the urge to turn his insides out right here, right now.

Theo is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. It’s like he’s waiting for Stiles to unglue himself from the tiles, the ceramic, so Theo can finally leave, almost. Because if you look at him more closely now, Theo, his eyes are sort of red. Like he’s really tired and, given that he just fucked Stiles’ brains out, he probably is.

Yeah, sure, he could – make it disappear, the way he made the bruises on Stiles’ body vanish, his split lip and purple hip and sore butt.

Technically, Theo doesn’t even have to eat, right?

But that’s not how the game works.

So he’s leaning in the doorway, lets out a yawn, then rolls his eyes.

The thing is just that Stiles – he doesn’t stop.

After a while, Theo advances into the bathroom.

At this point, it’s really just bile that Stiles is coughing up and his face is all red and his cheeks wet and he can’t see anymore, his eyes are clouded.

A hand is pressing into his back but Stiles, he can’t feel it of course.

What he does feel though is when the same hand slaps him on the shoulder hard like you would slap someone who’s passed out after a night of drinking to check whether you can still wake him up, bring him back, just hit him hard enough, or whether he’s already too far gone. Dead almost, already. That’s usually not how it is but there’s that second of shock anyway.

That brief moment, just for a heartbeat when you’re actually considering the possibility that there’s death right in front of your eyes.

Theo grabs Stiles by the sweater and drags him backwards, away from the ceramic and into the middle of the bathroom.

Stiles is disoriented for a moment, has no idea what just happened.

One second he was vomiting his guts out, the next he’s lying there on his back.

Well, maybe that isn’t all too bad because he’s panting, gasping for air, and that’s when he realizes that he hadn’t taken a breath for about half a minute when Theo had broken the spell, torn him away from his own spit and vomit.

“What the hell, Stiles?!”

The light on the ceiling is biting into his eyes cruelly so Stiles puts his right arm over his face, shields himself from it.

“What was that, Stiles? Just fucking explain to me,” and Stiles is getting dragged into a sitting position roughly, “how the fuck you still haven’t understood a thing about my healing powers? I can’t do anything when you’re like that – when you’re getting worked up like this over nothing, without physical damage. When you don't _want_ to heal.”

Then Theo is clutching his sweater, is shaking him and Stiles wants to ask him whether he’s insane because, clearly, the last thing you do with someone who just vomited for ten minutes straight is give him a good shake, but he’s in no mood to justify this almost irrepressible urge to vomit due to, well. This irrepressible urge to vomit.

It’s still there.

Feels horrible.

Also, his head is wobbling back and forth on his shoulders as Theo is shaking him mercilessly, grips him tighter so his fists are pressing into Stiles’ throat, causing him to gag, and are probably ruining his sweater as well.

Theo stops after what feels like a minute but must have been less, and locks eyes with him – at least, Stiles thinks that that’s what he’s doing. He can’t really see right now.

“You won’t heal like this,” Theo is saying again now, like he feels the message hasn’t really hit home with Stiles yet who is limply dangling from Theo’s fists like a doll, “Not when you’re making a fucking scene like the biggest bitch on the planet – when you’re being so fucking hysterical. Cut the shit out, Stiles.”

This statement, or maybe something in the way Theo’s delivering it, is hilarious to Stiles and a grin is slowly making its way to his lips. Pulls the corners of his mouth apart so they become thin and stretched and sort of white.

Theo’s reaction now though.

Pretty priceless as well.

He’s staring at Stiles, at the way he’s grinning back at him like he _knows_ something, has understood something that Theo hasn’t and Theo – he’s seriously taken aback for a moment.

Eyes wide in a mixture of disbelief and, maybe, shock, too.

Like Stiles is losing his mind right in front of his fucking eyes when he, Theo, had been so – careful. Yeah, sure, he’s gone a little overboard on the whole coming in Stiles’ ass thing earlier, it had just been so _good_.

Perfection.

So beyond belief that he’d not even been able to make Stiles come with him, had not even thought of it before his first orgasm, because in these moments leading up to climax?

There’s no fucking words.

When he was clutching Stiles’ hips, was riding him almost, his head thrown back into his neck, sweat running down his forehead, eyes squeezed shut and mouth half open, just breathing out moans and ‘ _Oh fuck_ ’s was really all he allowed himself to do. To not lose himself in this kid.

But he hadn’t been _out of control_.

Had he been – then Lucifer wouldn’t even be here right now and Stiles, presumably, in tiny shreds on the floor of Malia’s bedroom, that ugly green and red carpet that looks like someone just took last year’s Christmas tree and ironed it out.

Felt like it, too, itchy and prickly and, quite frankly, just uncomfortable.

It speaks to how fucking _gone_ Theo had been from the moment he’d pressed his chest up to Stiles’ back by the window that he hadn’t even taken note of the germy, disgusting thing that they were fucking on and that he’d have gotten rid of long ago anyway if Malia weren’t so ridiculously and unhealthily attached to it.

So, the fact that he really meant to take Stiles on the bed – Malia’s of course – but then didn’t even make it, had to shove his dick into Stiles’ ass then and there mere feet away from it, is a little alarming, to say the least.

But then again, ~~maybe~~ certainly the pact would save Stiles from a fate like this. Would send Theo back to the lands of fire _before_ he could actually do anything, not that he cares.

Or would it?

Maybe he’d have to actually break it first, kill Stiles accidentally, really hurt him in a way he’s not allowed to, and then the powers would rip Lucifer out of his human flesh while simultaneously putting Stiles back together. Maybe what’s in this deal is this kind of justice. Because if thoughts or almost’s were enough to banish Theo?

He’d been long gone, holy shit.

So how the deal is doing it exactly, Theo doesn’t really know, nor care.

He’s never broken his word before.

And never will either.

But you can see in his eyes, Theo’s, that the way Stiles is actually laughing in his face right now is unsettling him.

There’s something about Stiles’ mouth locked in this grotesque grimace that is bizarre.

Like he’s seen it before.

“Stiles.”

Theo lets go of his sweater and shakes him again, just once, but roughly, so his head falls forward abruptly and Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, rows of his teeth meeting with an audible _click_.

“Don’t fucking – do that,” Theo grits out.

He doesn’t wait for Stiles to respond but jumps to his feet and pulls Stiles’ limp body up with him. Then starts dragging him across the tiles, out of the bathroom, Stiles’ feet getting caught in the rug that only peels away again when it gets stuck in the doorway, is simply too big to fit through.

In the hallway, Theo has to wrap Stiles’ right arm over his shoulder and keep it in place by clutching his right hand, pulling it downwards so Stiles won’t slide off, collapse and just lie there, legs and head on the hardwood floor, torso on the carpet, and cackle maniacally until his dad comes home and trips over him.

Then they’re in Stiles’ bedroom and Theo halfway shoves, halfway throws him across the mattress.

Considers him for a moment.

Huffs out a, “You’re such a weirdo,” because he has apparently decided that it’s nothing.

What he just thought he saw on Stiles’ face, this odd laugh?

Not worth thinking about.

Stiles is just freaking out a little, Theo can clearly sense that now and Stiles’ lethargy during their drive over to the house, the calmness and lack of emotion that seemed so out of character, especially considering what Theo had just done to him?

That was already a part of it.

The calm before the fucking tornado.

The emptiness before feelings and thoughts, the whole fucking chaos, came crashing back down and almost, _almost_ take Stiles away with them.

Almost.

Because he hasn’t snapped, Stiles, not yet. Isn’t vomiting anymore, or even gagging, or being empty or upset or – crazy.

Rather, he’s pulled his feet up onto the mattress as soon as his body hit the comforter, then rolled over and started snoring like a toddler falling asleep in the middle of throwing a tantrum.

What a completely odd series of behavior.

Not out of character for Stiles though.

Theo is considering his back, the way it’s moving with every breath he takes, slightly pushing into the mountains of fluff and softness that is his comforter. Like Theo cracked an oyster open and found Stiles lying there embedded into the jelly, sleeping peacefully and beautifully like nothing had happened, like he’d just come home from school and gone straight to bed and he hadn’t vomited his guts out earlier, like Theo hadn’t fucked him so hard Stiles had practically passed out afterwards. Like he hadn’t made Derek and Malia listen to it. Like Stiles hadn’t just fucking freaked him out for a second there, granted, but only for a split second.

No.

He’s sleeping.

Like a baby, too.

Theo is staring at Stiles’ body lying there and his thoughts take him places.

Dark places full of fire and chains and Stiles’ ecstatic moans. The ones he, Theo, has yet to hear after all which is – he’s not particularly _happy_ about it, okay?

Anyway.

Just when Theo is about to turn around and walk out of here, Stiles pushes his body upwards on the mattress, uncurls and, taking in a deep breath, his head finds his pillow because of course it would.

Stiles and his pillow, God.

Theo remains rooted in place like he’s glued to the floor, listening to this breath going in.

Out.

In.

Out.

There’s a smile on his lips now and no one is there to see it, to piss off, so. Could it be genuine?

Because he does have these, Theo, real smiles.

Just because, when he’s standing there, arms crossed in front of his chest, watching Stiles, everything is making sense again.

See?

 _That’s_ what he’s talking about.

That’s what he means, what he _likes_.

What he’d been looking for for so long before he met Stiles.

This capacity to change, to surprise – even him.

Startle him out of his routine of five hundred thousand years.

Have him, Lucifer, go from fucking orgasmic to annoyed to worried to – the tiniest bit _startled_ , just a _tinge_ of surprise? And back to satisfied again, calm, content. Amused even, and all of it within less than two hours.

Back to – to this low-key agitation that’s already building in his stomach again and almost, _almost_ makes him stick that hand underneath Stiles’ sweater to press against his hot skin, feel that life vibrate underneath his palm with every intake of breath.

It’s what makes him almost

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lose his mind, or that’s what Derek’s thinking anyway.

That if he has to stay in this house any longer, stand in this fucking room where it all happened for as much as another second he might not even make it back to his apartment anymore. He might as well go straight to Eichen House. That’s how seriously fucked up he is.

Because a few seconds ago, Malia said this.

“What do you think it meant when Stiles was asking about us?”

This is an hour later and she’d stopped sobbing, was sort of composed again, her voice shaking only a little, only if you _listened_ for it anyway, then looked at Derek, eyes wide with the memory of – _something_.

The expression on Derek’s face had immediately hardened and he’d turned away, facing the window, glossing over his fear of _the one thing_ none of them has acknowledged yet, going, “All is calm now. I can’t sense anything – can’t hear anything either. I should-”

“No,” and there’s an edge to her voice, like –

Panic?

She doesn’t want him to leave.

Understandably so, right?

“Then come with me,” Derek says and he knows he’ll be done talking very soon, will fall silent within a matter of minutes. Forming thoughts in his brain and passing them on to his mouth, making his tongue and lips wrap around the words - it’s just too stressful. Too exhausting.

So he tries to get it all out before that happens. “You can stay at my apartment for the time being, it’s not like your dad – like he’ll need you. Or anything.”

Both their eyes go up to the ceiling, almost as if they’re being pulled up by invisible strings attached to – something.

Something up there.

“....right. He won’t need me anymore,” Malia says. She’s looking at Derek again, now, and there’s an expression on her face like she almost resents him for pointing it out.

Derek turns around and walks out of the room. Now that he’s so close to finally, finally getting out of here, he feels like the air in the living room is poison. Too thick to be sucked into his lungs anyway. He walks faster, right hand reaching out to push the door open, but before he can put his foot on the front porch, Malia’s voice, out of the depths of the pitch black living room, reaches his ears and it’s thin and stretched, more like an echo, “I think it means that Stiles is in love with you.”

Derek’s right foot meets the floor, one inch away from the doorframe and he turns around slowly, menacingly, but Malia, she’s just standing there, you can see the dark shape of her slim body move with the breaths she’s taking in and out. She doesn’t seem too impressed by the look on Derek’s face even though, with her coyote eyes, she can probably see every wrinkle in it clearly.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Derek grits out, then repeats it as if wanting to make clear it hit home, and that they’re never going to talk about it again.

“It didn’t _mean_ anything.”

But Malia is stubborn, always was.

“You heard his heart beat when he asked whether we’re dating, I know you did, Derek. Stop pretending like you didn’t. It’s disrespectful to Stiles.”

“Don’t fucking talk about him like he’s dead!” Derek spits out, “he’s not – it _doesn’t_ – just fucking _cut it out_!”

And then he finally lifts his boot over the doorsill, lets it land outside and proceeds with heavy steps in the direction of his car that is by now covered in leaves with sooty spots like the residue from a gunshot, oddly shaped like the imprints of hooves, covering the windshield, hood and roof, and he’s not even waiting for Malia to follow him.

She’s fast, she’ll catch up.

And when he turns that key in the ignition he’s so fucking scared, holy shit.

It’s not even funny anymore.

That, after what he heard Lucifer do to Stiles, what he, Derek, heard them both do together, there could still be something that would make his heart ache more heavily, more loudly. That could legitimately make what just happened in Malia’s bedroom even more horrible.

That that would even be possible.

It’s unreal.

What Stiles said though.

It’s what he’d said before they even started kissing that had made Derek try and get into the room desperately, with as much force as he could muster. Maybe he’d also tried to drown out anything else Stiles could possibly say. For Malia to _not_ hear.

Derek is scared shitless of what it had really meant and Malia, she knows all about it. From the way she’s looking at Derek right now, from where she’s sitting in the back of the Camaro, has squeezed her long legs into the tiny space behind the passenger seat for the sole purpose of being able to stare him in the eyes in the rear-view mirror, all determined and calm, it’s obvious.

She _knows_.

That the ~~fact~~ possibility that Stiles could have developed feelings for Derek would make this the most horrible thing that could have ever happened.

Because think, just _think_ about the _meaning_.

It would mean that he, Derek, could have had Stiles long ago. That they could have had time together, memories even, before all of this started.

Not that he’d wanted that or even ever thought of it but – hypothetically speaking.

That what Stiles had had to do with Derek in earshot in all likelihood not only irrevocably damaged Stiles but also broke his heart.

And Derek, he’d called him a brother just the other day, God.

He used to think that Stiles and he were just too different, that that’s why they just never clicked as friends.

Now he thinks that, maybe, they’d really always been too close to each other. Felt so oddly comfortable around one another, interacting so naturally, it had just been – strange. It was probably Stiles’ crush that Derek had sensed and that had made things weird between them.

And to think – to think that Stiles could, under different circumstances, want to be _his_ , Derek’s, right now is – it’s so horrific, so fucking terrible that Derek returns to the only possible solution.

The thing he’s kept telling himself so many times over, he’s only half aware he’s saying it out loud now.

“You’re mistaken, Malia, and even if – if it were true – it was because of the bond. It was Ferniel’s way of ensuring I’d be keeping my word. Because I’d be more attached to him.”

Then falls silent like he said it all.

“Fine,” Malia’s voice is heated, “Good. Turn this fucking nightmare into an even more twisted version in your fucking brain, Derek.”

It sounds like she means to say more, but then doesn’t.

She has turned her eyes away from him but he’s still throwing her glances like he dares her to go on. Like he’ll stop the car and fight her if he has to.

But it’s pointless.

She’s so stubborn.

Besides, they’re both listening to the echo of water that seems to be all around them, slowly seeping into the interior of the car. Like it’s a destitute vessel, drifting helplessly down a dark river, slowly disappearing amid the waves that extinguished the fire and drove away the hell beasts and Derek, he just wants to wrap himself in that sound.

And forget.

There’s nothing else to do anymore anyway.

 

 

Later that night, he’s thinking that he might be lying to himself here.

Or maybe he’s just confused?

Can you be so traumatized you get turned on by the memory of rape, the echo of pained moans?

When he’s finally managed to calm down enough that sleep doesn’t seem like a completely ridiculous concept anymore, what’s there in his head is Stiles’ breathy moans, not of arousal but of torment, from the mere force of Theo pushing into him and Derek – he can’t fucking believe himself.

When he realizes that after bleeping out Theo’s words and heartbeat and movements, his whole loathsome person, and the cries and the begging, what still remains, curling and uncurling in his brain like a parasite, is Stiles’ forced breathing, Derek wants to dart out of bed and jump straight out the window.

Not even open it beforehand.

Just go right through the glass.

God, he’s so fucked up.

There’s no words for it.

He has to do something to make it stop, now, or he’ll start touching himself which – yeah, it might be a mere bodily reaction to extreme stress, his personal alternative to throwing up maybe, but there’s nothing more damaged and twisted he could think of doing after the horrors of this night.

Fanual lifted the pact on him alright but what he did to him, what he’d twisted around in Derek’s brain?

It’s still not right. Never will be, probably.

Derek gets up, determined, lets his feet slide over the mattress and connect with the cold hardwood floor.

This has to stop.

And he walks into the living room where Malia is wide awake on the sofa.

Probably heard him turning about in bed for over an hour, too.

Waiting for him.

 

 

 

The next day hasn’t even really started yet and Stiles is sick of it already.

It’s not that he’s particularly worried about facing Theo.

But he’s tired of feeling like this.

When he's taking a shower, then goes down to the kitchen to swallow his cereal, he’s not really thinking of anything yet.

Ah, the bliss of early morning oblivion.

But it starts when he’s in his Jeep and driving to school.

Because he has to go to school, see?

Not going is just not an option.

What would he have done anyway?

Lie in bed and face the fact that not even wrapping the sheets around him as tightly as possible can do away with the distinct sensation of Theo letting his penis slide in and out of his ass?

As a matter of fact, it’s here with him right now, he can almost feel it going in and out, an echo of the strangest and most uncomfortable sensation he could ever imagine.

When Stiles is sitting in the classroom – it’s all empty, too, he’s a little earlier than usual today – he still can’t wrap his head around the whole thing.

It’s like the night is a blur and he can’t really believe it happened. Like he’d been so drunk he blacked out and only now discovers how the night ended, awful memories seeping in piece after piece, horrible bit after horrible bit.

Theo Raeken put his penis up his ass.

Stiles is shaking his head and he feels like throwing up again, holy hell.

This actually happened.

And Stiles knows it hurt even though, right now, he can’t remember that too clearly anymore. Probably because Theo took away every last hint of bodily ache yesterday night, before he soaped him down and, God, there’s a sudden image of Theo, face perfectly devoid of expression, lifting Stiles’ penis with his right hand and moving the shower head around it, so the water would reach every inch of Stiles’ body, even the sperm and sweat and ooze that had pooled between his thighs.

Good God.

Stiles covers his face with his hands, cheeks burning in shame and disgust and he doesn’t even know why. It’s sort of ridiculous to feel ashamed because your rapist saw you like this.

Isn’t it?

Or, maybe, it’s just logical.

The consequence of having your bodily integrity completely taken away. You look at yourself in ruins and all you feel is shame. Like it was _you_ who did something wrong.

Stiles goes, “No... no.... no... God,” and that’s how Scott finds him, just sitting there, head still buried in his hands and he puts his hand onto Stiles’ shoulder softly, so gently Stiles wants to scream.

Stiles’ head snaps up and they look at each other.

Scott worried, maybe a little surprised and Stiles – well.

He has this expression on his face like he’s absolutely shellshocked to look up and find his best friend standing there. Like it’s the last thing he would ever have expected.

“I – I – h-hey,” Stiles starts but soon realizes his mouth is not actually making words and falls silent.

Scott frowns.

You can see that he’s highly alarmed now and that’s when it hits Stiles.

No one told him.

Holy God.

 _Scott doesn’t know_.

Stiles was raped last night, two members of his pack being forced to listen to the whole thing and no one, _no one_ told the fucking alpha.

Stiles doesn’t even know how to react.

He’s braced himself for pity and hours and hours of worried looks and having to block attempts of getting him to talk about his feelings.

But this?

This is beyond – _anything_.

He doesn’t even know whether to feel glad or infuriated.

It certainly says something about how Derek and Malia are feeling.

Stiles is still staring at Scott, mouth halfway open, when Theo walks in and Scott, yeah.

It certainly doesn’t seem like it sometimes but he can be quick, a fucking Sherlock when he has to.

Stiles watches it happen, the way Scott darts around the moment Theo enters the classroom, how the two lock eyes and the corners of Theo’s mouth pull up into a smirk and he doesn’t even take his hands out of the pockets of his black sweater like he doesn’t even care that Scott is about to murder him, and just when it seems to hit Scott – his eyes widen and he inhales sharply, just once – just when Scott seems to _get_ it, Stiles decides that he’d rather he didn’t.

But it’s too late.

Scott turns back to Stiles and stares at him for another second, jaws moving like he wants to say something but can’t put words to what’s going on inside his head and that’s when Stiles’ brain starts working again, finally.

Sweet Jesus.

About time.

“It’s alright, Scott,” and his hands go up like wanting to say, _Easy._

_Easy, it’s not worth it._

“It er.... it wasn’t – so bad.”

Oh, dear Lord, what a pathetic attempt.

“Ok, it was bad but now it’s over, alright?” His voice is a whisper like Stiles is scared anyone could hear them even though, clearly, no one around them is giving a shit about the way Scott McCall is just standing there, an expression of utter freaking shock on his face.

“S- Scott? Just – calm down, okay?” Stiles is saying now because the way Scott is looking at him?

Quite honestly, it scares him a little.

And he can’t deal with the tension right now.

Then Malia’s there next to Scott all of a sudden even though Stiles hasn’t even seen her come in, and she’s wrapping her hands around Scott’s upper arms to pull him away, out of the classroom. For a talk.

When they’re at the door, she looks back over her shoulder to Stiles, only for a moment.

Then nods.

And Stiles understands.

She’s not going to tell him.

Whatever she’s going to say, Scott is not going to learn the truth, not from her at least, not today either, and Stiles feels grateful.

He knows there’s no way anyone could explain this mess so it wouldn’t break Scott’s heart and, to his, Stiles’, mind, three traumatized people in one pack are more than enough.

 

 

Stiles doesn’t even have to ask what it was exactly that Malia told Scott because as soon as he’s back by his side again, sliding into the seat next to Stiles, he turns to face him and goes, “Is it true that he – can make you feel good – while-”

“Yeah,” Stiles says right away and he’s relieved, somehow.

Okay, he feels like crap, yeah, but, you know, relatively speaking.

“Yeah, it – he can do that – did that. So, that’s one positive aspect.”

He’s not even lying because Theo _can_ do it – make Stiles feel good. He’s done it before but not yesterday and, yeah – why is that?

Scott doesn’t say anything else, just stares down at his own hands, at the way they’re clutching the textbook as if he wasn’t the one telling them to do that, somehow, but no, he doesn’t say anything because their teacher has walked in and she’s already talking about – whatever, Stiles isn’t listening.

And Theo clearly meant to do something for him, Stiles, last night but then, somehow, couldn’t.

Stiles knows Theo is staring a hole into the back of his head right now, he doesn’t have to turn around and see it.

He can almost feel Lucifer straining his brain like he doesn’t know either, isn’t sure why he reached around Stiles’ hips, grabbed his penis, but then wound up doing nothing but damage.

 

 

When Theo catches up with him an hour later in the hallway, a minute after their teacher wrapped up the session by giving them a ton of homework, Stiles knows he’d been right. Theo really had been thinking about this because as soon as Stiles is within earshot he says, “It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”

Ah, Theo’s familiar fondness for just hitting Stiles in the face with it, without offering any sort of introduction or explanation.

Stiles slams his locker shut.

“That’s a crappy apology, considering-”

“It’s _not_ an apology.”

They’re looking at each other while people are streaming in and out of classrooms, bumping into Theo because he just stands there, in the middle of the hallway.

“Don’t be a complete idiot, Stiles,” and the way he says it, too, it’s like – he’s annoyed and all Stiles can think of in terms of an answer is, “Are you kidding me right now? _You’re_ insulting _me_? Like, are you fucking _kidding_ me right now?”

He yelled that last sentenced but, thankfully, it’s so loud in the hallway that not many people take notice. A few girls, certainly, who rake their eyes up and down Theo’s body because, yeah, because he’s just that handsome, so much so that you want to look at him forever.

Not Stiles, of course.

He’s already turning around, away from Theo, when a hand closes around his upper arm.

Oh no, he didn’t.

He wouldn’t fucking dare.

Stiles’ looks back over his shoulder and there’s so much hatred in his eyes that everyone but Lucifer Himself would have recoiled. As it is, Theo confronts his gaze with coldness. Like he decided to drop the act for once, almost.

“You don’t understand, Stiles. I’ve been around for millennia and I learned control. It’s an _art_ and I brought it to perfection.”

No response from Stiles. He’s just glaring at Theo like he can make him go up in flames if he just put enough loathing into his gaze. Theo conveniently ignores it. He doesn’t have time for this right now, clearly, has something on his mind and he will be heard.

“But _this_. It’s like I came into existence all over again and have to start from scratch. And I’m already struggling hard to stay in control, more than you could ever fucking understand, Stiles.”

“With my deficient human brain.”

Icy.

“Yes, Stiles. With your fucking narrow horizon.”

Theo is still clutching his arm, keeping Stiles from getting away from him, but then doesn’t say anything either because, yeah.

Because there’s literally nothing more to say and he’s only waiting for Stiles to challenge his words.

After a few moments of silence and intense staring, grim and determined on Theo’s side, full of burning hatred on Stiles’, Theo uncurls his fingers, lets him go. He even raises his hand as if to show Stiles that he’s no longer restraining him, that Stiles is free to go wherever the fuck he pleases now.

And then he’s turning around – has the nerve to actually fucking turn his back on Stiles, like he dares to walk away from him not the other way round – and muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “Why do I even bother,” like Stiles is just so fucking stupid, so pathetically human he’d never get it and Stiles –

He snaps.

You can almost hear it, the soft _click_ in his brain when it happens.

“Locker room.”

It comes out as more like an angry hiss than actual words, like Stiles was speaking Parsel, but from the way Theo’s body stiffens Stiles can tell that he heard him, oh, he heard him alright.

Stiles has already turned around so he doesn’t see the expression of – well, surprise, probably, on Theo’s face.

Is walking down the hallway, in the opposite direction of where he should be headed.

Once he’s here in the locker room, he even has the time to turn around slowly, consider the dark blue lockers with their dents and scratches, that’s how fast he walked. The fresh plaster on the wall because, yeah, Scott’s pack must have demolished the room at least twice within the past two years.

The worn sinks.

Stiles knows them so well.

Like the palm of his own hands.

He’s stared down at them in a state of both joy and horror.

Fear, too, God, so much fear.

This now, though?

There’s no words.

It’s the single most peculiar state of emotion Stiles has ever found himself in. Like he’s slowly descending into madness and he only realizes now with a mixture of astonishment and amusement that _that’s what this feels like obviously_. Fascinating.

A few moments later Theo is here, is closing the door behind him and his eyes are never leaving Stiles’ when he advances slowly into the room.

There’s so many things Stiles could say, too.

_I can’t go on like this._

_I have to either die or survive, it’s the waiting part I can’t deal with._

But then he just stands there and looks at Theo who is looking back at him, face still calm, with just the lightest frown like he’s either amused or irritated but can’t decide yet, will have to gather more data, is waiting to see what Stiles is up to

 

 

now.

No, you listen to me now.

This is it, Stiles.

You want catharsis, yes?

Right.

We understand, because so do we.

We feel with you, see?

All the suffering, the torment, the utter darkness?

We’ve been there with you, have watched you walk through it all. We’ve been next to you the whole time, for God’s sake.

But our voices can’t reach you, you can _never_ hear us yell, _Look out! Hide! He’s coming for you!_ And, God, we want you to hear us so badly.

We ache for you, don’t you understand?

Desire you, even more than he does.

So, now that you’re _finally_ listening, let me take the chance and say this.

Explain it to you a little more, yes, so you’ll get what _this_ is.

Because it’s really simple, too.

It’s your initiation, Stiles.

Through skin, fat, blood, tendons, bones.

Alright?

It’s essential that you get this.

You’ve never seen it coming either, we know, but it’s okay.

Because while you’re dying on the inside, we’re not only feeling your pain, we’re also starting to get bored.

What we need, Stiles, is the same that Theo does, as Lucifer does – we need you alive and kicking. Not a dead shell. Because that’s only entertaining for so long.

And it’s not because we’re like him, Lucifer, either. It’s because we love you so much.

More than you could ever begin to understand.

We won’t ask you to, either. To understand.

Just know this.

You need to let this behind you.

Heal maybe, even, if you’d prefer to. Whatever suits your fancy.

Do what you have to do to stay Stiles. Even if we might be looking at you a little differently from now on, frown whenever we ~~read~~ hear your name in the future, like you grew up to become someone, _something_ we’re not quite sure we approve of, do not concern yourself with that now. It’s not important.

The thing is, you need to move on from this spot because you’re starting to dissolve into the shadows in front of our very eyes and – it’s with a certain horror that we’re acknowledging this.

It’s the one thing we’re most afraid of.

So, listen to me now, Stiles.

Do it now.

 _You_ know what.

Don’t just _tell_ yourself.

Do it.

See what happens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The way Theo’s eyes widen when Stiles opens his right hand – Stiles finds it hard to take his eyes away from it. He’s watching Theo’s face closely while he extends his arm, then turns it and uncoils his fingers, palm facing up to the ceiling.

He packed the lighter when he’d already been on his way out this morning, had thrown it into his bag without even really knowing what he was doing.

Oh, but he knows _now_.

Thinks he’d really meant to do this all along anyway.

Theo is frowning like he doesn’t really get what Stiles is telling him here.

It’s hilarious.

“I promised you, I wouldn’t-” he starts but Stiles cuts him short.

“Not me,” he says. “ _You_.”

Theo blinks, once, twice, then snorts out a condescending laugh.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Stiles.”

But Stiles doesn’t respond. Just looks back at him.

“What – seriously now? This is what you want? How you mean to get your revenge?”

Lifts his eyebrows at him.

“Sometimes you crack me up, Stiles.”

“Not revenge, you son-of-a-bitch,” Stiles says back, face grim and determined, “Just what I need to keep on doing this.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Theo says again. “That’s not you, Stiles. You’re not cruel. What you need is – safety,” and he spits out the word like it’s a pathetic thing to want but then, he, Theo, didn’t expect anything else from him, has long accepted these weaker streaks of Stiles’ character, “ _Love_. You’re so freaking fragile, Stiles. You need to be cradled and held on a regular basis like a freaking toddler.”

Stiles’ face relaxes a little which is – there’s an odd timing to it, definitely, and Theo must think the same because his frown deepens.

When he speaks his voice is all calm and so – _silent_ , the unbroken, mirror-like surface of a dark pond into which a madman dumped thirty corpses that are rotting there on the ground unseen by those above, heavy chains climbing up their feet, milky eyes already dissolving into the green water.

“Try me.”

And Stiles moves his fingers that are curled around the lighter, positions his thumb on the wheel, ready to strike it and summon a flame.

Theo lets out a snort again, rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says and shrugs.

“But I have to disappoint you, Stiles – I tried that out on myself more than once and I can deal with it. I heal, too. You know that.”

“Just shut up,” Stiles says and Theo shrugs again. Then extends his right hand, palm facing the floor.

Stiles strikes the lighter and a small flame springs up from the silver box.

“I think what you’re forgetting here, Theo,” he says while moving his hand in an upwards direction, carefully so the flame won’t go out, is watching his own movement, too, with concentration, “is how the human brain works. You see, you can never remember how bad the pain really is – unless you’re feeling it...”

He flicks his eyes up to Theo’s face.

“... _right now_.”

And lines his hand up with Theo’s palm.

Nothing happens for a moment but the flame licking at soft skin.

Stiles has his eyes glued to Theo’s face.

It takes a moment – another one.

Wait for it.

And there it is. Theo winces.

Then lets out a hiss but still keeps his hand there, elbow trembling a little like it really wants to pull away but Theo isn’t allowing it.

“ _Aah_ ,” and he finally draws his hand back, clutches it to his chest.

“See? That’s what I mean,” Stiles says and lets the flame disappear.

Theo is staring at him.

“Is that all you can take?”

Stiles’ hand it still extended and he is lifting his eyebrows at Theo.

“If you want to keep fucking me – you’re going to have to take it. You promised to give me what I need, remember?”

And he lets the flame spring up once again.

“It’s what I need.”

Theo looks down at his own palm and Stiles can see the rest of what must have been a raw spot, pink and moist with the thinnest and most delicate pattern of bloody lines like cuts, get sucked back into his hand.

Then their eyes meet and Theo grits out, “Fine. But you’re getting cocky, Stiles. Careful.”

Stiles shrugs.

“What do I have to lose.”

It’s not even a question and Theo, he frowns again. Like he’s not sure whether _he_ did this – whether he has, in fact, done more damage to Stiles than he thought possible.

Or whether it’s merely a side of Stiles’ character he hasn’t encountered before. Because he’s full of surprises like that.

“Stiles, I-”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself, asshole,” Stiles says like he's exactly guessing what Theo is thinking. “I always meant to do that, from the first one of your little torture sessions I wanted to make you _feel_ – understand. You just broke down the barrier last night, is all, the last bit of restraint. So?”

And he waves the lighter through the air.

“Am I skipping English for nothing here?”

Theo sets his jaw.

“Fine.”

Looks at the lighter, then back up again.

“Fine. But I want to get something out of this, too.”

“This is not-”

“This _is_ the deal. Consensual. Remember?”

“What you did to me last night was not fucking consensual, you piece of shit,” Stiles spits out and there it is again, that smirk on Theo’s face and Stiles strikes the lighter almost without being aware of it. He knows where he wants to put it, too.

“Well, I already told you, it wasn’t supposed to go down like this. But apart from that, Stiles – I’m Lucifer. What did you expect from a deal forged in the fires of Hell? Of course it benefits the Lord of the Red World.”

Stiles jumps at Theo, his right hand with the lighter lifted and he slams it into Theo’s cheek at the same moment that Theo’s arms reach his shoulders.

Wrap around him.

Stiles’ eyes widen with surprise.

His hand seems glued to Theo’s face and even though he can’t see it, he knows the flame is licking at Theo’s skin, upwards from where the rim is pressing into his cheek, putting a red burn mark onto his face that reaches up to his eyelashes and singing them, curling into his orbital socket and tapping at his eyelid that had quickly squeezed shut upon contact.

Stiles put the lighter on maximum, just to be sure.

The thing is, Stiles can’t see what the little flame is doing – _his_ flame now, for once, his alone – because Theo has pulled him flush against his chest, is holding him, fucking _hugging_ him with his big arms like his life depends on it, his right cheek pressing into Stiles’ and his body stiff, all tense.

He lets out a hiss, is pressing his teeth together but he never lets go of Stiles who feels – peculiar.

After what must be about a minute, Stiles takes his thumb off the button and Theo lets out a small whimper. The flame disappears but not so the pain, Stiles would know.

He knows everything about this, see?

Theo’s body relaxes against his and now he’s leaning against him, his hands and arms draped limply around Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles pulls back because he wants to at least look at what he did, what he managed to do, before it’s all gone again.

“Like what you see?” Theo says and he’s smiling even though a part of his cheek is missing and it makes him look crooked, somehow. Stiles wasn’t aware that the little flame would have that kind of a reach. Could burn into his skin that deeply.

The left side of Theo’s face is raw and open and moist, his eyeball – Stiles has to avert his gaze because he’s starting to feel sick again.

“See, I told you, that’s not you,” Theo is saying softly now but Stiles narrows his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t like seeing it. But hearing Theo pant and hiss because of a pain he, Stiles, is inflicting – it gives him a grim kind of satisfaction.

Gives him back control.

Agency.

All the things he’s been longing for so desperately.

That momentary rush of power that comes with evolving from being a victim to being a perpetrator, from someone who gets hurt to someone who’s inflicting pain. Inferior, superior. It’s easy.

He _needs_ that to go on.

When he faces Theo again, the skin on his cheek is pink, his mouth intact, his eye white again, in shape.

His eyelashes are growing back.

“You’re no fun at all,” Stiles mutters which excites a laugh from Theo.

“Fun? Oh, Stiles... what, you want me to not heal? I can do that for you but – _I_ always took _your_ pain afterwards. Remember?”

“I’m not imitating you, asshole,” Stiles spits out. “I just hate you so much I want you to fucking hurt.”

There’s tears in his eyes when he says that.

Silence from Theo.

Then a nod.

“Okay. Yes. I understand.”

“I don’t want you to fucking understand! I want you to suffer.”

“Alright,” Theo says and this smugness, this fucking calmness, Stiles wants to hurt him so badly for it, so instead of thinking about what to do next, making a plan, he slams his right hand down onto Theo’s upper leg.

He’d been clutching scissors, you see, had already taken them out with the lighter and kept them in his left hand all this time. Then, when he’d dropped the lighter, had curled his right hand around them and they go right through the fabric of the pants like a dagger, through skin, flesh and Theo lets out a gasp through grit teeth.

Not more than that though.

When Stiles takes his eyes away from his own hand and the blood that is already welling up around his fingers, drenching Theo’s pants, and looks up, he can see that Theo’s face is distorted with pain but he’s silent.

Just pressing his teeth together but not letting out another sound. Is breathing the pain away. So Stiles, he lets his fingers slide up to the handles and even though they’re trembling and slick with dark red blood he manages to thread them through the two rings.

Opens the scissors with as much force as he can.

Then slowly turns them.

Theo goes, “ _Gnnnnn_ ,” and squeezes his eyes shut, lips pulled up from his teeth and he’s swaying a little, almost falls over but, surprising them both, Theo and himself, Stiles quickly puts up his right foot so Theo can rest his body against it.

Stiles wants to see all of it, is the thing.

Not miss a second of Theo’s face distorted in pain, so he can’t have him fall over and ruin his, Stiles’, angle here.

When Stiles starts cutting, Theo’s makes a pained sound like, “ _Ha!_ ”

His breath is coming out all ragged now, hitching in his throat and Stiles, oh, he doesn’t think it’s enough just yet.

Theo is now almost draped over his knee, head sunk onto his left shoulder, muscles flexing on his throat and arms, and tears streaming down his cheeks, not because he’s really crying but because it hurts so much, Stiles knows it does and – he’s making a mess.

Theo’s pants, they’re shreds now, clotted into mushy bits of flesh, the odd mixture of blackish red and yellow that you get when you’ve cut deep enough to have gone all the way to the white core, to the bone.

He can use both his hands, too.

So he picks the lighter back up, snags it up out of the dark red puddle below Theo’s knee with his index and middle fingers. It looks like it’s drenched in blood, too, but it’s still working.

Yes, taking the scissors to cut through flesh and tendons and layers of fat and muscle, as well as the lighter to singe what he can reach of the soft, raw flesh that he dug up out of Theo’s thigh might be a little redundant.

There’s only so much pain you can feel, see?

And Stiles, he stuck the scissors in so deep, and with so much force, too, they went straight into the bone. He felt it, almost like cracking your spoon through the surface of crème brulée, only so much more _powerful_ , and he also knows from the way the blood has drained out of Theo’s face.

He looks like he’s going to faint.

Not smiling anymore, but his eyelids peeled back again and he’s looking at Stiles, has locked eyes with him and Stiles – he doesn’t feel the urge to gouge them out of their sockets.

It’s Theo’s silent gaze that finally does it.

Stiles doesn’t want to see this anymore, any of this.

None of it.

His fingers uncurl and the scissors slide off his slick knuckles. Doesn’t even take them out of the hole he dug, just stares down at the mess, then at Theo’s face, registers the greyness in his handsome features.

Theo’s panting but his breath comes out flat and sort of thin.

“Severed – artery,” he forces out and closes his eyes. Like he doesn’t have the strength to keep them open.

“Oh,” is all Stiles can say to this.

What – does that mean Theo’s bleeding out?

And a soft smile on Theo’s lips confirms that, despite the pain, he can guess exactly what Stiles is thinking.

“You killed me,” he says. “ _Ha_. You actually – _gnnnnn_... did.”

Stiles doesn’t feel anything.

He’s just empty.

Not satisfied either.

It felt good while it lasted. It had to be done.

Now, though, he’s not in the void anymore but it’s still inside of him and it feels foreign.

He retracts his leg, the one that was holding Theo’s body in an upright and stable position, and Theo just collapses on the floor. Looking down at him now, at Theo, at the way he’s bleeding and panting and looking like death, Stiles just feels like hugging someone.

Reaching out to someone who will shield him from the horrible sight.

That _he_ caused, too.

“You’re crying, Stiles...”

Was that – a question?

“Of course you didn’t kill me. But because you needed this – I’m going to heal like a were – not the... otherworldly... being that I am.”

Yeah, right.

Supernatural healing that would knit his artery, his bones and tendons in maybe thirty minutes. Or just flicking his fingers and be fine again.

“Fuck...,” Theo grits out. He tries to pull himself into a sitting position.

Fails.

Coughs and turns his head a little to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“You’re satisfied now?”

Stiles doesn’t respond.

He just sits there, staring down at all the blood.

God, why is there so much blood.

The color of it, too.

Stiles has never seen it before.

Like something that comes out of the depths of a human body and should never, _never_ be exposed to light because when you spot that eerie shade of dark red bleeding into muddy brown?

There’s no hope anymore.

And it’s everywhere, Theo’s shredded blue pants, his black sweater and hands and throat and face and all over the tiles. And it’s on Stiles, too, like they both took a swim in brains.

It legitimately looks like he slaughtered Theo which –

That’s not completely inaccurate.

So Stiles is just sitting there, staring at what he has done, asking himself why the redness bites into his eyes like that even though the lights aren’t even on in here.

Not even wondering why no one has come looking for them yet.

Then Theo is pushing himself up with his hands. His face is still pale but he’s breathing more smoothly again.

When he crawls over to Stiles, the gaping hole still there in his thigh, like some monster just bit a huge chunk out of it, Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

He’s not sure anymore who’s in control right now, who’s playing with whom exactly.

Nor does he care.

Theo is on his knees now, lifting his hands, they’re all bloody from having been placed in the pool of dark red ooze on the ground and Stiles can feel drops hit his cheek and throat, sprinkle the color all over his, Stiles’, blue sweater, but he doesn’t move out of the way, just lets Theo pull him into a tight hug again, lets himself get wrapped into this weird mixture of strangeness and comfort.

Over Theo’s right shoulder, he can see Malia leaning against the wall. The door is closed though, so she must have been here for a while but for how long exactly, Stiles can’t be sure.

Malia has heard him do worse. Now she has a picture to go with her new impression of him, Stiles.

He closes his eyes, waits for the door to swing open and click shut again or Theo to let go of him.

Then Malia has been gone for a while and they’re still there on the floor, Stiles wrapped in Theo’s embrace, cheeks wet, feeling miserable but at the same time the tiniest bit relieved, like he can breathe more freely again.

Like he dug that space he desperately needed out of Theo’s thigh and it was exactly the right thing to do.

The right place to look for his peace of mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles isn’t sure whether the nod that Malia had given him this morning also meant that she was going to cover for him in general. But he thinks, it probably didn’t.

So he’s pretty sure she told Scott about what she saw.

About Stiles slicing into Theo’s leg like it’s the most terrific thing to do, that anyone could be doing.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him either.

It’s like he’s back in the void, except –

Except, he isn’t.

So, what is that saying about him now, exactly?

He doesn’t know what Theo did in the locker room afterwards, either. Whether he wiped the blood off, soaked the gallons Stiles had spread on the tiles up with some piece of cloth the way a human would do it. Or whether he took the easy, the _otherworldly_ , way out.

He doesn’t know because after what felt like an eternity, Stiles pushed Theo away from him and, without another word or a look back, disappeared in the shower room. But he soon discovered that he wouldn’t be able to get rid of all the blood.

He could have gone back, ask Theo to clean it off of him.

Yeah, right.

He’d rather have gone back to being tortured himself than do that.

It would have come close to admitting that what he had done hadn’t been very well thought through. That he’s made a mistake even.

So he stood there, rubbing off the blood from his hands and all, then grabbing a clean pair of pants and sweater out of his locker, but he just knew he couldn’t go back to class.

He reeked of blood.

And not just the nosebleed kind.

The kind of stench that comes with a massacre, with scattered brains and carnage.

To be honest, he can still smell it a little on himself and he doesn’t completely hate it, either.

Because he wanted this, see?

It’s just the thought of Scott noticing it that makes him cringe.

Scott wouldn’t understand. He just couldn’t.

That comes with being a true alpha, and, simply, a regular human being. Just the things someone who is whole would find disgusting.

Immoral.

So Stiles went straight home, wrapped his blood-soaked clothes in a plastic bag he found in his locker, threw the whole bundle into his gym bag and carried it out to his Jeep but, even though he didn’t feel guilty, he still couldn’t shake the sensation of carrying around a dead infant, it was just so heavy and moist and compact.

No, not guilty, but the horror he felt at what he’d done, had been able to do, almost erased last night, replaced it with a completely different kind of haunting.

Good.

That’s what he was going for.

A terror that was his own, of his own making.

That he had chosen, basically, and caused, from beginning to end.

And maybe he’d do it again.

It would be his dirty little secret, the reason why he’d be able to look his dad in the eyes in the future and just lie, why he wouldn’t get all agitated and nervous over the final exams anymore or over whether he’s making a fool of himself or not.

He’s grown up.

That bundle on the back seat of his Jeep?

It’s the token of his initiation.

He cradles it in his arms when he’s jumping out onto the gravel, the way you’d hold a newborn, close to your chest but carefully, alert to its every movement so as not to hurt it, or worse, crush it.

It’s in this strange mood that Stiles looks left and right and finds Derek there, sitting in his car some twenty feet away, parked by the side of the road.

Stiles just unlocks the door and walks into the house, as if he didn’t hear Derek get out of his car, the distinct sound of someone coming quickly across the lawn.

It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to confront Derek either.

Just – what’s the point?

What happened yesterday night, it’s so far away now for Stiles, feels like it happened in a different lifetime.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

And he will murder everyone who dares to make him recall sensations and images, drag that whole thing up out of the depths of his subconscious.

Derek seems to be aware of this though, and not too eager to talk himself.

He follows Stiles into the house and it takes him about five minutes to even open his mouth for the first time.

Stiles has dropped the bundle onto the kitchen table where it clearly doesn’t belong and Derek is flaring his nostrils, like he can’t believe he is actually smelling this much blood, Theo’s blood no less, oozing through the fabric.

“I just wanted to check if you’re okay,” is the first thing Derek says and he’s staring at Stiles’ back who is rummaging around in the fridge, looking for soda cans that are cold enough.

“...figured.”

And he turns around, pushes the fridge shut with his right knee, Converse still on his feet and Derek just stares at him.

Like he expected any reaction from Stiles, just not _this_.

Stiles isn’t calm. That’s just not him.

He’s nervous, cheeks flushing and hands trembling and blurting out something embarrassing before Derek is even in the kitchen yet, not this smug son-of-a-bitch who just dropped a bundle with his own blood-soaked clothes onto the table and then dug a Sprite out of the fridge.

Offers one to his guest as well.

Like they’re both adults and they’re just talking.

In fact, it freaks Derek out so much that he actually finds himself saying something out loud he swore to himself he’d never, _never_ talk about, “Malia and I aren’t – we’re not dating.”

 “Okay?” Stiles is saying slowly, “And you’re telling me this because...?,” but of course he knows exactly why Derek would even mention it. Stiles’ lips have become thin and stretched because he’s pressing them together and he’s looking back at Derek coolly, as if daring him to go into detail, to spell it out, to tell him exactly where and how he’d heard Stiles ask about it. Like they’re random acquaintances and Derek just offended him by blurting out something way too intimate that he shouldn’t even know of, like his childhood nickname or the dirty details of a recent break-up.

And something in the coldness of Stiles’ voice nudges Derek to do exactly that.

“I’m a wolf, Stiles,” Derek shoots out – and an idiot, clearly, because he can’t stop talking.

“I heard – sensed how you meant it.”

He didn’t really, though, but alright, they’re really talking about this now, okay, good, even though _Derek_ was the one who walked out on _Malia_ after she threatened to talk the subject to death, even afterwards.

Even _after_ what they had done, had had to do to stay sane, to summon new sensations that they could cling to for dear life rather than the horrors of that night.

Why is it that he came here again?

He can’t really remember.

Something about wanting to see Stiles’ face. Form his own opinion about the damage. Maybe soothe the guilt he was feeling, too, let Stiles tell him that it wasn’t his fault.

Because he can be an egotistical dickhead.

Or, maybe, it was this.

To hear, with his own ears, what he, Derek, meant to Stiles, even though he doesn’t even know why he’d ever want to hear it.

“And how did I mean it?” Stiles says after the long drawn silence. Still this terrible, cold look on his face, smell of blood still seeping into Derek’s nostrils, almost as intrusive as the persistent noise of water in the back of his mind.

“You were hurt because you thought there’s something going on between Malia and me that you didn’t know of.”

Aw, great.

Painfully frank Derek Hale is back. Derek could do well without that awkward son-of-a-bitch.

“I want you both to be happy,” Stiles says simply and takes a sip from his Sprite.

Not nervous.

Not a lie.

Why is this so unsettling to Derek?

So instead of dropping the subject the way any clever man would have done, he says, “You threw the question into the room as if you didn’t want Theo to know that you actually cared for an answer.”

At the mention of Theo’s name, Derek can see Stiles flinch, can pick up an irregularity in his heartbeat and it hits him.

He knows what this is, what he's hating about this whole situation.

It’s still Stiles.

Stiles is still there.

He’s still there, just not for _him_ , Derek.

His awkward stuttering and nervous blushing and clumsiness still exist but they’re not for him to see anymore.

They’re all – his.

Theo’s.

Theo is the one who pushing Stiles' buttons, who – who Stiles will be reacting to, forever.

And it makes Derek so furious all of a sudden, he doesn’t even really see the kitchen anymore, has these black spots appearing at the edges of his vision and closing in quickly.

He may not be an omicron anymore but he’s still a beta who knows his territory and who will not fucking have this.

Even though there is this human voice in the back of his mind that expresses mild surprise at Derek’s sense of entitlement, he can’t keep himself from gritting out, “I know you care about this, Stiles, and the reason I’m here right now is to tell you that nothing’s going on.”

The truth yesterday.

A clear lie today, obviously, but Stiles is not a were. _He_ can’t smell Malia’s saliva on Derek.

“So you just thought you’d come here and – ease my mind,” Stiles says and he’s sounding dangerous now in a way Derek has never heard from him before.

“You thought you’d just barge in and make me talk _through the whole fucking night_ ,” and he’s yelling now and, there, his cheeks are flushed, finally, and Derek, shocked at both Stiles’ and his own behavior, goes, “ _Stiles_ ,” meaning to soothe him but Stiles just talks over him.

“So you thought you’d sit me down and tell me all about what you _heard_ and then make me fill in the blanks. Remind me of what happened while making me spell out to you what I feel for you,” Stiles says and he looks livid, “you egotistical motherfucker.”

These words hit home and Derek’s heart is aching, completely inexplicably, while he goes, “That’s not – I’m sorry, Stiles, I didn’t mean to – that’s not what I _meant_ – not at all, I wasn’t implying-”

“Just stop _fucking_ talking. _God_! We all got it. You’re the straightest, whitest dude around here and you just wanted to let me know that you don’t judge me for having had a fucking crush on you for like, forever.”

Silence.

They’re staring at each other, Stiles panting, he’s so angry, there’s red spots on his cheeks and his eyes are moist while Derek, well.

Derek looks shell-shocked.

Like his anger from earlier just collapsed into itself and he can’t believe he said what he said and he can’t believe he heard Stiles say what he did.

After a while, he swallows, says, “Stiles-”

“Fucking leave,” Stiles grits out and, yeah, these are real tears now. They’re on his cheeks and then, even running down his throat like there’s _a lot_ of them coming out of his eyes right now, and quickly, too.

“Don’t ever show your face around here again, just go to – to Mexico, or lie in some bitch’s fucking bed, it’s what you’re best at anyway.”

Derek sets his jaw, reigning in the expression of surprise and hurt.

He should leave now.

There’s nothing that could be said between them that could fix this mess.

But then, Derek can’t leave like this. He just – he can’t bear it.

“Stiles, I... I didn’t – we’ve been close to each other like that, I know. It makes sense to me now. But you know that I could never – I could never reciprocate-”

“Liar,” Stiles interrupts him and Derek feels like crying.

What the hell is happening here?

“You’re either a liar or a fucking coward. Or both.”

Derek can’t say anything to that.

He’s still sure that what he’s feeling for Stiles could never develop into something serious, not ever become similar to what he could feel for a woman anyway, but his heart is aching nonetheless.

“At least Theo’s honest with me.”

Derek’s jaw drops.

Stiles did not just say that.

“ _At least_ – Stiles, are you insane?” And, tilting his head to the side, “What’s up with Theo’s blood over there anyway. What the fuck have you been doing?”

Stiles grimaces.

The soda can is still in his hands, only half-empty but forgotten.

“You know what we’ve been doing. We’ve been fucking, Derek.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“He’s been shoving his dick up my ass, and even though the concept is disgusting to you, surely your memory can’t be that bad?”

“Disgus- _what_? It’s not – don’t fucking say –”

“And whatever we’ll be doing is not going to be any of your business either. Maybe I’ll suck his dick again. Maybe he’s going to ride me right here on the floor. You know. Just two gay dudes having fun.”

Derek’s hands have, to his own mortification, shot up to his face, but at least he manages to keep himself from slamming them over his ears.

“Don’t fucking say that, Stiles, like you’re some kind of – of dirty hooker.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows, tears dried now, almost gone.

“Dirty hooker? That’s pretty accurate I think. If you consider someone giving sex and expecting safety in return. Yeah. I guess, I’m his whore. And he’s going to use me in any way he wants. And I’ll let him, too.”

They look at each other for a few more moments.

Derek has no clue as to how the fuck they even wound up here. How the conversation ever turned into this. He should have walked out earlier, as expected had made everything so much worse by not doing it.

He can’t even move now, stays rooted in place, so after about a minute of silence or so, Stiles just turns on his heel and leaves him there, glued to the floor between the table and the fridge, and there he remains, hearing Stiles climb the stairs, shuffle over the carpet in the hallway, dragging his feet.

Heavy footfalls in his room.

Stiles has been sitting at his desk for almost ten minutes when Derek can finally make up his mind, get himself to go, to leave.

When he’s behind the wheel of his Camaro, anger has returned, together with the guilt and this horrible ache. He wants to murder someone, anyone, make someone pay when he was the one who has messed up for good now.

It’s the fucking icing on the cake of disaster and would usually be enough for Derek to really leave. And never return.

Ever.

Maybe end this, kill himself, finally.

But this – what Stiles just said to him?

It changes everything.

Makes Derek think of things he’s never allowed himself to think of before.

Because it doesn’t even matter anymore.

He’s a horrible person, and he’s not even trying to hide it or struggling to make people think better of himself. It’s about the showdown that Farnuelle had been planning and Derek – he’s okay with it now, finally, willing to contribute the way it had been intended for him to. As a werewolf, not an omicron.

To save that last intact bit of Stiles’ character, the last fleck of innocence Theo has not yet managed to sully.

They have to do it.

Sacrifice it all for it, if necessary.

It’s the one thing Derek’s going to live for now, and it will be worth it.

He just knows it will.

 

 

 

Stiles can’t sleep that night.

He’s so mad at Derek, the only thing he does for what feels like hours is lie in bed and stare into the darkness while his thoughts are spinning around everything Derek said, hateful comebacks shooting into his mind without Stiles being able to stop himself, only becoming angrier and angrier with every unsaid thing.

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, that’s it, he’s about to go insane – it all stops.

It happens suddenly, too.

As if someone opened his skull and sucked out all the poison.

Then this deadly calm that settles on him all of a sudden.

It’s the weirdest sensation and Stiles immediately knows something is going on and yes, that should unsettle him, but for the moment he’s just glad about a moment of peace.

He swings his feet out of bed, lets his bare soles connect with the floor.

When he gets up he feels weak and shaky – that’s another thing about being really angry for hours, you forget to drink and you’ve been way too agitated for far too long so when you finally come to again, snap out of it, your body is screaming neglect.

Stiles shuffles across the room, gets his feet momentarily entangled in the jacket that he dumped here earlier and almost faceplants onto the floor.

Curses under his breath, his heart beating loudly.

It’s only when he’s out of the room, making his way on tiptoes down the dark hallway, unwilling to turn on the light – he knows every corner in this house like the palm of his hand, yes? – it’s only then, when his right foot is on the stairs already that it hits him.

He has been here before.

Not exactly _here_ , in this moment, but here, at night, alone, feeling weird like someone – _something_ is calling him.

Is pulling him downstairs.

Three times to be exact.

He knows what time it is without having to flick his eyes up to the glow-in-the-dark hands of the living room clock.

When he sees light seeping through the crack underneath the kitchen door, oozing out onto the dark living room floor – something that never, never happens because neither Stiles nor his dad ever close that door – he isn’t even surprised. Yes, his heart is beating like crazy and who can blame him, right?

While he isn’t scared rationally, his body still reacts to the possible – likely – danger.

So his brain is going, ‘What could anyone possibly do to me right now that hasn’t already happened?,’ but then, he’s shaking nonetheless.

Stands in front of the door for about half a minute.

No sound from inside and – of course not.

Angels suck the noise out of any room they’re in, it’s the weirdest thing. Stiles never really quite understood it. It’s like being locked into an empty and completely soundproof room where you’re slowly being driven crazy by the terrific _loudness_ of the utter lack of sound. There’s no echo either, not even the sound of your own heartbeat.

Stiles has always ever associated this kind of silence with one other thing only.

Death.

Strangely enough, right?

Because you’d expect them to be light-bringers. Life-givers. That sort of thing.

So, needless to say, angels have weirded him out from the first moment he ever happened upon one. Which was, incidentally, here, in this very kitchen.

And he isn’t disappointed now, either.

When he pushes the door open and sees – _her_ he knows exactly who it is, too.

They look at each other.

Stiles can’t seem to be bothered to speak. He’s clutching the fabric of his grey t-shirt as if trying to hold on to it.

The eyes on this thing.

God.

They’re blue, yeah, but the color is all wrong.

Nothing should ever be that blue.

Not strong and piercing and beautiful like Derek’s but pale, somehow, watery, and just – _still_.

Rigid.

Stiles finds himself unable to avert his eyes, but the thought of Derek does ease up his tension a little bit. Reminds him that until five minutes ago he was so angry, he was seriously considering just driving over to Derek’s stupid fucking loft and knocking his goddamn teeth out.

And – _she_ _knows_ , of course, because she says – and as soon as she does Stiles desperately wants for the silence to return because her voice is just awful, just the frequency at which it’s swinging, _nothing_ should ever sound like that, “So heartbroken.”

You know that shit is happening when your guardian angel shows up in the body of a really hot chick with long, blonde hair, and makes snide comments about your love life.

But then, she’s wrong, so damn wrong, he’s not heartbroken right now, no. He’s fucking angry again.

“How dare-,” he starts but it comes out rather pathetic, because his voice isn’t working right. While he’s watching a mischievous grin appearing on her face and she starts looking more and more like the Cheshire cat, just this disembodied mouth suspended in the air, Stiles takes a few quick breaths in and out.

“... how could you – even _show up_ here? How dare you – I mean, where _were_ you?”

As his voice is growing louder it’s also becoming steadier. More determined.

“What the fuck is this supposed to be? Mh? Where were you – where were you yesterday?”

Yesterday night, yeah.

Because even though he’s successfully pushed it far away from him, it’s still there.

It still happened.

“It’s not important right now. Stiles. It’ll end soon and it won’t be important anymore. Do you understand that?”

“What? What’s _wrong_ with you?,” uncurling his fingers from his shirt and gesturing, “Aren’t you supposed to be like – my – _guardian_ , or something?”

She’s watching him.

Cat-like.

Still and waiting.

“But of what use could I be when my charge makes a deal with the Devil,” she says. Blue eyes never leaving his.

And – she’s testing him.

Even more, provoking him because, her grin widening at the edges, “The savagery, though. Stiles.”

And she makes a step in his direction that has Stiles inadvertently back away, toward the door that is, strangely, closed behind him even though he never heard it shut.

“Ah. The savagery.... clawing a hole into Theo Raeken’s human shape, causing him agony, killing him, if not for his superhuman power. That you are capable of this, however, I always knew.”

A composed smile. Satisfied, almost.

“Stiles.”

“Don’t – just stop – don’t say my name like that,” Stiles grits out.

Like an incantation.

Bewitching his senses and carving a way for this voice to seep through layers and layers of consciousness. Pleading him to listen, to understand. _Stiles_ , uttered in supplication.

A goddamn prayer.

She seems to know exactly what he means even though he, Stiles, he can’t get it out, just can’t.

He’s standing there, in the dimly lit kitchen, clock over the counter announcing that it’s ten past now, the palms of his hands pressing against the wooden door like he’s trying to melt into it and disappear.

These awful eyes, though.

They’d probably find him still, no matter what.

She’s shaking her head now, and it’s a graceful gesture, making her long wavy hair glide over the surface of her silken gown and it looks like it’s floating around her, like the hair of a drowned woman.

And who knows where on earth he – _she_ – found this new body again. It might have been entangled in driftwood, plastic bottles and coke cans, washed ashore by the movement of the river, for all Stiles knows.  

“His influence on you is greater – far greater than I would have thought possible,” and her voice is a whisper, like the soft murmuring of a brook and Stiles can feel her words reverberate in his brain without really making sense, “That you would shy away from me – from me of all creatures. Stiles... don’t you understand? It’s _his_ doing. Lucifer. You let him into your body and into your brain and – it’s almost too late. But we can yet make this stop.”

Advancing further into the room.

“You... _want_ this to stop. Don’t you? Stiles.”

Her face has changed, somehow.

Lurking.

Reading him.

Scanning his insides with these watery blue eyes and Stiles – it’s almost too much for him.

His stomach twists and that’s only when he registers how scared he really is.

Apparently aware of her effect on him, Phaniel stops.

“You don’t have to understand now, Stiles. All I ask of you is to stand by when Lucifer breaks his deal. Because he will break it. And soon.”

“Phanoelle,” Stiles starts, his voice coming out a lot thinner than he’d intended again.

“Farnial,” she corrects him.

“He’ll never – you can’t get rid of him. You – you know it. How can you even be here? What – why did you never tell me about – about omicrons?”

Another gracious shake of the head.

“No time now to explain, Stiles. Not necessary either. Just know this.”

And a ghostly smile is playing around her lips again.

“Derek reciprocates your feelings even though he isn’t aware of it. Not only that. He loves you deeply. Fervently.”

“Wh-what?”

And blood is shooting into his cheeks almost immediately.

“That can’t-”

“It’s the truth. You know I would know this, Stiles. There is but one truth. You and Derek are meant to be together – Lucifer was never meant to walk the Earth. I gathered my powers, nurtured them in different living creatures and am strong enough to exorcise it – _him_ – now. All I ask of you, Stiles, is a small sacrifice, utterly insignificant compared to the great good you will be doing.”

Stiles feels like the last of his strength is being sucked out through his eyes, merely by the act of looking into hers.

Like he has this odd urge to open his mouth now, screw it wide open, and facilitate the process.

“You can bring history back on its right course now, Stiles,” and her voice is growing shriller now, gnawing at his eardrums, “All you have to do is keep him, keep Lucifer by your side when I’m doing it by repeating his name to him. Do not allow him to escape. You’ll have to find out which one works best – Lucifer is not his real name, you see – but I think we – you and I, Stiles – have sufficiently worked on him _becoming_ Theo Raeken. _Truly_ being he now.”

“...what?”

“There is power to a name, you see? Stiles,” and she smiles knowingly.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that if spoken correctly, if you _say_ it the right way, a person’s name can summon that person himself, almost? That for some, speaking is praying, and when I say _Stiles_ , you cannot but hear me – and listen?”

“What kind of bullshit is this.” Stiles can feel another bout of irritation, of anger surge through him, giving him the courage to pipe up. “So you’re basically saying, Th- _Lucifer_ is like Rumpelstiltskin, and when I say his real name, he’s gonna explode. Or what.”

Pheniel is slowly shaking her head in exasperation, a soft sigh escaping her lips and Stiles, he is almost surprised by it. He didn’t think she was actually _breathing_.

Certainly doesn’t look like it.

“No. Well – maybe your idea is scratching the surface. The more closely he was _bound_ to you, Stiles, the more Lucifer became – truly and fully became – Theo, melted into his body, into his mind. Into this kid who, at the age of seven thought that _your_ face, Stiles, was the most beautiful thing he'd ever beheld. It was little Theo’s capacity to marvel at your beauty, at your grace, Stiles, that made Lucifer choose him. He was intrigued. He was _longing_ to feel the awe himself, to be humbled, _alive_ , like this.”

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

Stiles lips are quivering.

It has been some time since he really thought about his best friend from childhood days – the real thing, anyway, the real person. Little Theodore that he’d met on his first day at school, when he, shy and awkward and somewhat teary-eyed to be away from his mother for so long, had slid into the small chair next to Stiles.

“It has to do with everything, Stiles,” and – is she sounding a little _impatient_ now?

“But it will not matter whether you understand or not. All you’ll have to do, Stiles _– listen to me, Stiles_ ,” so sharply suddenly that Stiles almost jumps, goes ‘ _Jesus_...,’ “is keep saying his name that I will not repeat here lest he should hear it now and show up and disturb us, ruin the plan. You will keep saying his name to keep him by your side, his powers clipped, too, by the pact, so I can do the exorcism.”

“The exorcism,” Stiles repeats, grimacing.

“Yes, Stiles. The exorcism. Will you do it - will you help me?”

And Stiles almost shrinks under her gaze now which is – powerful is really the only appropriate term.

He nods.

Yeah.

Yeah, he will do it.

He wants for this to end. Desperately so.

To be free. For Derek to be free despite – despite the dude being a complete and total dick. A handsome dick, for God’s sake, handsome and fucking adorable even, sometimes.

Yes, and Stiles is nodding vigorously now, he’ll do it, fuck, is he gonna do it.

Just wait and see.

 

 

 

When he’s tossing around in his bed, later, her words are still haunting him and he just knows he’ll never be at ease again.

Hadn’t she mentioned a sacrifice, too?

Maybe she sensed – knew, certainly, somehow, that Stiles – no.

Whatever, even if – she, Fanial, said it herself. Lucifer had been messing with Stiles’ mind for far too long, for so long in fact, Stiles wasn’t even sure who he was and what he wanted anymore.

He should feel relieved though, is the thing.

But maybe he just can’t anymore, isn’t capable of this particular sensation anymore with Satan having a firm grip on his mind. On his heart even.

Yeah, most likely, right?

So he’s telling himself to relax, to sleep now, all will be good, it will be over, soon, but with Theo’s name echoing in his head, almost as if he can hear himself, Stiles, muttering it like an incantation, like a prayer, in the not too distant future, _Theo, Theo, Theo_ , he can’t sleep, he just fucking can’t, physically impossible.

Stiles would be happy about another, deeper, a more final, silence.

 

 

 

Like the hauntings of this week will never end, Theo is the first thing in Stiles’ mind the next morning, and so is the translucent, ethereal shape of his, Stiles’, guardian angel and the stunningly beautiful body she chose for this particular visit - chose explicitly for him, Stiles can only assume.

So different from the fat old guy with cheerful lilac eyes he met some months back down in the kitchen. Stiles had been more trusting then, too. While he’d been certain it had been a dream, just an imprint of Pheniel on his memory - Stiles had  been certain his guardian had been banished years ago, see - it had seemed to him like the good-natured spirit had been reaching through the worlds to warn him.

Now he isn’t so sure anymore.

From what she had said, the way everything had gone down had been exactly according to plan, _her_ plan.

Stiles snorts out a cheerless laugh when he puts his Jeep into park.

So Lucifer, he’d really been lagging behind all this time, not getting the big picture, his archenemy’s plan that had been slowly but steadily unfolding.

And all he, Stiles, will have to do is to keep saying his name once it all starts – whatever it is, that Fanual has been planning, plotting.

Should be easy.

It wouldn’t even matter if he told Theo all about it right now.

Stiles is pretty sure that the plan will be of a kind that will make it physically impossible for Lucifer to avoid it. Is probably already in its last stages, too.

Otherwise, the angel wouldn’t have shown up for this little _fyi_.

 _These creatures just always treat you like you’re dumb and going to ruin everything with your blatant humanity_ , Stiles is thinking to himself while he’s walking across the parking lot.

But then, that’s exactly how Derek treats him, too.

_Derek reciprocates your feelings even though he isn’t aware of it. Not only that. He loves you deeply. Fervently._

These exact words.

Ridiculous.

If that is true – then what the fuck is wrong with this dude?

Stiles isn’t even sure he cares anymore.

As he pushes the door open, holds it for two girls who slip into the building after him, he’s thinking that after everything Derek said – the way he’s made completely and perfectly clear that he doesn’t want to fall in love with a guy – it doesn’t even matter if Derek’s secretly crushing on him or not. If he should even be _in love_ with him.

Because can you really be in love when you refuse to be?

Right.

You do have a say in this.

Stiles is strutting down the hallway, boys and girls disappearing into classrooms to his left and right, and he feels like he’s suspended from strings.

Like he’s a human puppet and all these goddamn supernatural and otherworldly creatures are fighting over who gets to steer him through the ridiculously bleak alleyway with run-down houses, garbage just dumped onto the sidewalk next to the shells of burnt-out cars, that is his life.

Dance for them, dance.

When he walks into the classroom, his face is grim. He nods hello to Lydia, acknowledges Malia, shakes hands with Scott who doesn’t let go of his hand after their two seconds, is clutching his arm to his chest and staring into his eyes meaningfully, as if trying to tell him telepathically that all will be fine.

All will be good soon, I promise, Stiles.

I promise.

Stiles frowns, immediately understanding, of course, that they’re all in on Phanuel’s plan, even Malia, have been, maybe for a long time now, and Stiles – he isn’t sure he’s liking this.

It irritates him, like he’s being rushed to a decision here, is requested to put his signature to some long-ass contract he hasn’t even gotten the chance to read.

He needs more space to think.

To recover first, yes, then to think.

Then Theo walks into the classroom – it’s always in this order, Theo’s usually the last to arrive, probably because he likes a good entrance, the way these girls’ and occasional boy’s jaws drop a little and their eyes widen just at beholding his figure, his pleasant face, shifting in their seats, sending him smiles and _Hey, Theo’s_ , wanting, _needing_ for him to notice them.

Before he passes Stiles’ table, he gives him a small and knowing smile, not as bright as usual but conspiratorial, almost. As if meaning to say, _I see you, Stiles._

_I see you clearly._

It’s about what Stiles did to him yesterday, of course, about Stiles torturing the fuck out of him, killing him, almost, if he ever could be killed, and it’s the most unobtrusive, the most affirmative gesture Theo’s ever given him probably, and Stiles – he decides he needs to think.

 

 

When Scott says, “I’m riding with you,” Stiles just nods, not sure if he’s liking this or not.

The thoughts in his head, they’re just way too loud, he needs time and space to sort them out.

“It’s okay, er... I don’t think Theo will bother me today...”

Scott climbs into the passenger seat.

Doesn’t respond which –

It’s odd.

If that’s not what this is about... is Scott going to talk about the plan then?

Discuss details with him, fill him in?

“So... er... yesterday night, Phanuel-,” Stiles starts, hesitantly, and pulls the driver’s door shut, but Scott cuts him short.

“Malia told me – about yesterday. About you and Theo, she – she saw you.”

He has turned in his seat, is facing him and looking him in the eyes with a determination that makes Stiles want to push the door open again and run for it.

Oh, he thinks he knows what this is.

But Scott wouldn’t – _surely_ , he couldn’t –

“And I just want you to know it’s okay.”

There.

He said it.

Stiles stares at him open-mouthed.

There’s just _something_ about the way Scott said it, too – this look of worry on his face, a tone of – of pity, almost.

“What – do you mean?”

“I just – I’m so fucking sorry man, about all of this,” and he puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, giving it a short squeeze, “And I just wanted to – to let you know,” he’s taking a deep breath now, like this is really difficult for him to say, “that I’m not judging you.”

“Why – would you judge me?”

It came out more coolly than Stiles had intended but he really feels like someone dropped a bucket of ice down his throat that is slowly filling up his stomach now.

He hadn’t felt _ashamed_ before.

Now he does.

As soon as Scott sees the expression on his best friend’s face, he immediately goes, “No, no, that’s now – I meant, should you think I could be judging, you know, I mean-,” and he takes his hand off Stiles shoulder, buries his own face in it now, “ugh, why is this so hard. It’s just – Malia said you saw her, too, and that you might be feeling, like – that that’s why you’re avoiding us. I just – want to make sure you know that we – we all understand.”

They all understand?

So they all know about it, then?

Awesome.

Fucking great.

Stiles, however, doesn’t have it in him to give two fucks right now, he feels drained like that, so he just says, “It’s okay, Scott, I wasn’t thinking that.”

Not until now, at least.

“And I wasn’t avoiding you either, I just – a lot – happened, okay? During the past two days and it’s a lot to digest, too, so... I just need – time.”

“I get that, man...,” Scott says and his hand is on Stiles shoulder again now, “I totally get that. Er... if you ever need anything – you know, right? We’re there. I’m there. Derek too.”

The mention of Derek’s name does something to Stiles.

Like Scott tugged at an invisible string that is threaded through his whole face and causes it to screw up, for him to purse his lips and narrow his eyes.

“What the matter?”

Stiles doesn’t respond.

He turns the key in the ignition and then it’s too loud for them to really talk comfortably anyway.

Not that any of his conversations with Scott have been comfortable during the past weeks. But maybe they can go back to normal again, sometime.

Maybe even soon.

Who knows.

 

 

They throw two frozen pizzas into the oven at Scott’s house and take one of Mrs. McCall’s creative salads out of the fridge. All in all, it’s a good combination and leaves them feeling like they had a healthy meal.

“I swear, it’s all I’ve been eating for weeks here. Goddamn salads... I mean they’re really good, yeah, but at a certain point you’re just like – can’t we ever have real food in this house again?”

Stiles laughs but it sounds a little forced – maybe because he feels like screaming on the inside.

It just hasn’t been enough time for him to recover but Scott – he wouldn’t be his best friend if he didn’t catch on right away, so they finish their meal in silence.

Then flop down in front of the TV to play Halo for the rest of the day and Scott only throws him a side glance once every ten minutes or so, when Stiles gloriously screws up again.

He just can’t focus, but Scott doesn’t comment on it, so the day passes in relative peace and quiet, even for Stiles.

If only his mind would stop going as well.

 

 

Not a word passed between them about Phanuel, or about the plan he mentioned to Stiles, until Scott says, “I’d ask you to stay here for the night but – he, er, I mean, _she_ seems to think it’s better for you to – to go home tonight.”

Stiles who had been rummaging around in his bag for his car keys – he keeps dropping them in there because he’s a little paranoid for them to fall out of his pants or jacket pockets – stops and looks up.

“You saw him? Her, I mean?”

Scott nods. Grimaces.

“Creepy, somehow.... and you’ve known her before?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Yeah. She came to warn me a few times, you know... it’s supposed to be her job anyway...”

Gloomy.

“Yeah... yeah, right. Well... I’m not too happy about it either, but – Derek says it’s the only chance we got. And I think he’s right.”

This name again.

Stiles finally fishes out his car keys.

He’s not going to say anything about Derek.

He thinks he might be done with the guy.

For good.

And it hurts just a little to think about it like this.

“He and Malia have been planning this for a while,” Scott goes on, seemingly oblivious to Stiles’ change in demeanor, “Theo seems to have done something to Malia’s dad, even though he promised he wouldn’t. I think she’s given up the hope of getting her brother back, too.”

Silence while Stiles is struggling to get into his jacket.

Just hearing Scott talking about this gets him so agitated, he doesn’t even know why. He just can’t bear having anyone put thoughts into his brain right now, when he already has so much going on inside there as it is.

Wants to shield himself from it all.

He feels this desperate urge to curl up into a little ball and sleep. Not know, see or hear anything.

“Do you – do you think he’s still in there?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Stiles goes, “Huh?”

“Theo – the real Theo, I mean. Since... you have spent – like, time with him. You know him. Right?,” talking more quickly and blushing because, yeah, it’s clearly the most ridiculous euphemism Stiles ever heard, “Do you – do you think there’s hope? Something we can do?”

“I – don’t know...”

And he really doesn’t.

There’d been a time when he’d been asking himself the same question over and over again on a daily basis, when the desperate wish to retrieve his then-best friend out of the pits of Hell had been on his mind almost constantly. He’d cried about it, too, way too often.

But that was years ago.

“I think,” he says, “from what – both have told me – Lucifer and Phanual, I think – he might be there but... inseparable from him. You know?”

“How that?”

“I really don’t know, man. And I don’t care anymore. Listen, it’s late, I should – really get going, alright? Sorry, Scott, don’t wanna be rude. Spending the day like that was awesome, just-”

“It’s alright,” and Scott gives him one of his genuine, heart-warming smiles. “Your dad will be home by 8 today, right?”

Stiles nods and turns to go.

Just when he walks out the door, he can hear Scott say, hesitantly, like he doesn’t really want to bring it up but like he thinks Stiles should know nonetheless, “Don’t worry, okay? Anymore, I mean. Phoniell said he – she’d be watching over you now, and that – it should be fine for tonight. It’s the only reason I even let you go. Okay?”

Stiles lifts his right hand for Scott to know that he heard him, appreciates the concern, too.

Then he’s in his Jeep, letting out a long drawn breath, not even thinking about whether Scott can hear it or not.

Silence again, finally.

It’s not Scott, it’s just – just too much.

He’s overwhelmed and he can still hear the echo, like Farnielle looped his thoughts _, Theo, Theo, Theo, Theo_ , and it’s driving him freaking insane.

 

 

When he gets up the next morning, he doesn’t even know what day it is.

It’s only after a moment that he realizes it’s Saturday again and – where the hell has the week gone?

Sucked into the pit with everything else probably, Stiles’ sense of integrity and safety and joy and – but no.

First, have breakfast with your dad.

You can’t let him see you like this.

Not as long as you can somehow avoid it.

Remember?

Like this, with that sour look on your face and nothing but darkness on your mind, it’s _not_ enough. Try harder.

So Stiles shoves scrambled eggs into his mouth, bacon, and pancakes, and listens to his dad rambling about work and about his new intern who’s watering the plants way too often.

Like, _way_ too often.

Stiles nods and smiles politely, and then they do the dishes together.

Before he goes up to his room, he promises to vacuum, yeah, yeah, he’ll do it alright, maybe also a little cleaning upstairs, too. Because he’s a good boy like that, Stiles.

Then he’s already sitting down at his desk, trying to focus on school work but it’s pointless.

Stops again after ten minutes.

Turns on his computer and starts googling random things.

May or may not have clicked on a Supernatural fanfiction.

Then starts playing games, and that’s what he’s still doing four hours later when his dad knocks on his door.

“Son?”

Stiles goes, “Mmh,” eyes glued to the monitor.

The door opens.

“Er... Theo’s downstairs.”

“Mh,” and then, because his dad doesn’t leave, “tell him to come upstairs.”

“Did you vacuum your room?”

“...no. Not yet.”

“I hate to be that kind of father, but could you-”

Stiles slams his finger onto his keyboard a little louder than necessary, rolls his eyes.

Why can’t everyone just leave him alone, just for the weekend?

“Okay, I’m doing it. I’m coming.”

His dad nods, opens the door wider.

Stiles leaves the computer running and follows his dad down the stairs.

So he’s a regular teenager today, isn’t he?

Having to tell his playdate that he has to clean his room first.

Theo just smiles and nods, and then he sits in Stiles’ computer chair while Stiles runs the vacuum through his room. Rather than go through his computer for games or the like, Theo, of course, is watching him closely, smirk on his face like he can hardly suppress the snide comments which doesn’t exactly lift Stiles’ mood.

What a shitty day this is, and it certainly won’t get any better.

For once, however, Stiles is not thinking about what may lie ahead.

He’s just pissed in general, he really hates cleaning but usually doesn’t fuss about like that, like a ten-year-old.

He vacuums hallway, bathroom, his dad’s room that is meticulously clean otherwise, then carries the vacuum back downstairs, for his dad to use in the living room.

Runs back up, and picks up the dirty laundry in his room and a few other things that had been lying around on the floor, and Theo, of course, has already cleaned up his desk, put his comic books back onto the shelf, everything related to school into drawers. He could help him with the rest easily, too, without even having to get up, but of course Stiles’ darting around in front of his eyes, dropping and then having to pick up single socks on his way out, actually sweating because this is more exhausting than it looks – that’s far too entertaining.

Fifteen minutes later Stiles has cleaned the bathroom, wiped down the mirror in his dad’s room, and is back in his bedroom to change the sheets. This is the moment Theo chooses to get up and walk over to him.

“Maybe you should wait with this.”

“Mh?”

Stiles looks down at his own hand clutching his pillow, then up to meet Theo’s eyes and Theo - he lifts his eyebrows.

“Wow, you’re – wired today.”

Stiles drops the pillow back onto the mattress. Averts his eyes.

Yeah, he’s not feeling too well.

“Hey – hey, what’s the matter?”

An irritated shake of the head.

The last person he needs to comfort him right now is Theo.

That would be the single most ridiculous thing ever.

Plus, he doesn’t need anyone.

He just wants to be left alone. Not _forever_ , just for a few days.

To de-stress.

“Is _this_ what you need again?”

And before Stiles can stop him or even knows what’s happening, Theo has grasped his hand and put Stiles’ palm onto his own thigh, that’s how close he’s standing to him now.

They can hear Stiles’ dad vacuuming downstairs, knocking over a chair, cursing.

“What-” and Stiles draws his hand back, cheeks flushing.

“You seemed to enjoy it for a while yesterday.”

“That’s not-”

Why the hell is he blushing?

But he knows why.

He still can’t believe what he did.

“I don’t regret it,” Stiles says and he takes a step back, putting more space in-between their bodies.

“And you shouldn’t,” Theo says with a wide grin. “You did a good job, too. A little too messy perhaps but... to feel your anger like this...”

Stiles can see him take a deep breath and that’s when it returns, like a fist hitting him in the stomach.

The fear.

“Uhm... I don’t – I’m not angry anymore, so...,” and it’s the truth. He really isn’t, not at Theo anyway, strangely enough.

“So, we can just – just put this behind – _us_ , and, er... yeah, still got a lot to do, so...”

Theo has his fingers in the pockets of his jeans, just the tips though, because the dude is so buff that his pants just barely fit him.

Stiles, involuntarily, is staring down at them now, acknowledging with growing unease just how _tight_ they are.

“Why don’t you tell your dad not to disturb us for the next two hours.”

Stiles is sweating, but not because he’d been running in and out of his room until about five minutes ago. He’s legitimately scared and Theo, of course, knows all about it because he adds, “We’ll do it right this time, too, Stiles. I’ll do it right. The way it was supposed to happen.”

“But-”

“ _No buts, Stiles_ ,” smile tight-lipped now, menacing, “Do it.”

Stiles turns around and walks out of the room, hating himself a little for giving in to this bastard so easily. But does he really have a choice?

He knows he doesn’t.

His dad is putting away the vacuum and Stiles starts, hesitantly, “Er... dad? I’m done upstairs. Is there – should I do anything else. Like, outside, maybe? Mow the lawn or stuff?”

“No, Stiles, that’s fine,” and the sheriff turns to face him, “You’re free for the day, son.”

And he gives him a wide, a genuine smile and Stiles – it just hurts.

“Ahem... good. Okay. Er... so... Theo and – and I, we’ll be in my room. And...”

He’s staring down at his socks and, God, his cheeks are heating up, he can feel it.

Stiles really didn’t mean to make it this awkward.

His father lifts his eyebrows at him, but doesn’t help him out.

Apparently, he wants Stiles to spell it out for him, so Stiles goes, “Can you – maybe, like, not bother us for the next couple o’ hours,” and then, quickly, “There’s this game, er, Theo got this new game and we-”

“Alright,” his dad says, interrupting him, “understood. I – will give you guys some space.”

And then, to Stiles’ complete and utter horror, his dad steps up to him and pulls him into a hug.

“If you’re happy, son, then I’m happy. You know that, right?” Lets go of him again. “Okay?”

Stiles isn’t sure whether to laugh or break down crying. He really feels like both right now.

This is so fucking twisted.

“Thanks dad,” he says, giving his father a crooked smile, then quickly turns around before the sheriff comes up with a bunch of questions that, Stiles could practically see it, had started surfacing in his brain and that could turn out to be more or less horrible, depending on what his dad was currently thinking they were about to do, ranging from ‘ _So, you two are really dating, mh?_ ’ to ‘ _Are you being safe?’_

Stiles makes a quick visit to the bathroom, unsure of what to do exactly, then decides not to shave, just to quickly clean himself and when he’s drying himself off, his hands are already shaking.

Walks back to his room a few minutes later and when he pushes the door open, Theo is already sitting on the mattress, back resting against the wall and he’s apparently been looking at the exact point where he knew Stiles’ head was about to appear and Stiles, he feels like all his blood suddenly drained from his head. Like he’s going to faint.

Oh, fuck.

So this is happening.

He hadn’t expected for it to be so soon, had really believed Theo would give him more time than just a day or two.

Stiles closes the door behind him.

Turns the key in the lock, just to be sure.

Then walks over to the bed without Theo even having to ask.

Knees weak, gaze averted.

As soon as he touches the mattress, Theo is already reaching for him, his hands grabbing Stiles’ shoulders – but then, releasing him again almost immediately.

Like he told himself to go easy on Stiles. To hold back.

So he just tips Stiles’ head up by the chin and lowers his lips onto his and Stiles, he just lets it happen.

He’s sort of used to kissing Theo by now, to his taste in Stiles’ mouth, to the way his tongue curls around his hungrily.

It’s okay.

Theo is a good kisser, too, so, hypothetically speaking, Stiles might be able to enjoy it, even, if it weren’t for.

Well.

For what would come after.

Theo pulls away after only a few seconds and he’s already breathless, it’s such a weird thing to see, to watch, his cheeks are flushed and he’s – yeah.

He’s undeniably handsome.

And Stiles – he will do this.

Can do this.

With Theo trying not to hurt him, this time, he thinks – he thinks he might hate it, yes, but maybe it won’t utterly shatter him like last time did.

Even though, when Theo pulls his sweater and t-shirt over Stiles’ head with one rough tug, Stiles thinks that he’s still feeling way too sore on the inside. Like it inflicted a wound on his soul that is still, all these hours later, open and aching. He feels emotionally raw and knows, just fucking _knows_ , he’ll also be feeling it physically soon.

Theo is grabbing his shoulders again, wants to pull Stiles into another kiss but Stiles quickly says, “Can you – please be careful?”

And Theo halts. Pauses in his movement to look at him.

“Please? Because if you’re not, I’m going to jump out there.”

And Stiles nods over to the window.

Wow.

Threaten suicide.

How grown-up of you.

But deep down, of course, Stiles realizes that rather than being childish, he's really feeling utter freaking desperate here.

Theo pulls his hands back and nods.

Then says, “Okay. Just – undress and get under the sheets.”

And, to Stiles’ surprise, he gets up from the bed.

Unlocks the door and walks out of the room.

Stiles unbuttons his pants with trembling fingers, shoves them down over his hips, knees, kicks them onto the floor.

Socks, too.

Clothed in nothing but his boxers, he crawls under the comforter, resists the urge to wrap it around him tightly, then he just lies there, facing the wall.

He used to think he’d be safe here, in his bed. Safe from him.

It’s the one place he always went to when he couldn’t take it anymore.

His last refuge.

Not anymore, obviously.

When Stiles hears the door open, then close and lock again, softly, his heart starts beating so fast, so loudly, he can feel it in his throat and stomach, too.

There's a rustling, the sound of sweater, and shirt, pants, boxers and socks being peeled away from skin.

A brief silence.

Then the mattress dips and the comforter is being lifted.

When a naked body slides underneath and presses against his, Stiles shudders even though Theo’s skin is hot and smooth.

Theo pulls the comforter tight around them, like meaning to keep Stiles warm.

His left arm reaches around Stiles' body, pulls him flush against his chest and stomach. Stiles can feel his penis, hard and big already, press against his ass and he swallows. He’s still wearing boxers, so it’s not skin on skin but – it will be, soon enough.

After a minute or so – Stiles heart doesn’t seem to want to slow down anytime soon – Theo starts moving his hip, rubbing up against him.

Then stops.

His hand that had been pressing into Stiles’ naked chest disappears and the comforter moves. Stiles grabs it and holds it tight, so it wouldn’t slide off his body. He can’t face the cold air in the room.

The nakedness.

Theo is bending his whole upper body backwards, away from him, seems to be reaching for something on the nightstand.

“Do you want me to do it?”

Spooning Stiles again, Theo lets a tube of lube dangle in front of his face. It’s not the one Stiles got from Mason but a bigger one, all black with silver letters on it, looking bizarre. Vulgar, somehow. Stiles suddenly wishes he'd have thought of closing the blinds.

“No,” he says curtly, shoves his left hand upwards and reaches for the tube. Snatches it out of Theo’s hand who chuckles softly.

Stiles unscrews it clumsily, and as soon as the cap is off, the stuff already comes welling up and spilling onto his fingers. It’s gooey and almost transparent and smells faintly like lavender.

Seriously, why do these always have to be scented?

Theo takes tube and cap out of his hands again, obviously because Stiles will otherwise get that stuff everywhere before he can screw the cap back on himself.

“Is that enough?”

Stiles just nods his head up and down on the pillow.

He cups his hand around the dabs of lube on his palm, tries to not rub his sticky fingers over the comforter even though, yeah. It doesn’t really matter, he’s going to change the sheets anyway, right?

And either way, he wouldn’t want to sleep in them tonight, not after – Stiles swallows again.

Theo tugs at the fabric of Stiles’ boxers, pulls them down to help him and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.

Doesn’t even protest.

Theo has moved his hip, pulled back about an inch to give Stiles some room, but not enough for Stiles’ knuckles not to brush over his penis when he sticks his fingers in-between his own butt cheeks.

Oh, this again, God.

How he fucking hates this part.

But then again, it’s not even the worst, there’s more, horrible stuff to come.

Stiles works in the tip of his index finger. Obviously, he didn’t really think this through at all, because of course the lube is _everywhere_ on his left hand _except_ for his index finger, so he has to curl it into his palm, rub it up and down for a second or two.

Then try again.

This time it glides in smoothly and there it is again, that hot, burning sensation and Stiles sucks in a breath.

He can feel Theo’s hips move, like he wants to rub up against Stiles but then can just barely keep himself from doing it and – it’s not helping.

Like, at all.

God.

And if you don’t think this isn’t uncomfortable as fuck, try shoving your finger into your ass without being turned on even a little bit, and see if you like it.

No?

Yeah, thought so.

Then Theo’s palm is resting on his back, in-between his shoulder blades, and he says, “Shhh... relax...”

And Stiles does.

His shoulders, his whole body seem to soften a little, and while it doesn’t lessen his discomfort it does numb his urge to cry and hide.

He knows that it’s all that Theo will do for him for now, but it’s enough, suffices for him to be able to work in a second finger and breathe, just breathe, and get used to the feeling.

After a while – maybe five minutes, maybe more, Stiles pulls his fingers out after having turned them a little, pushed them in a bit, then pulled them out again. He lets his palm, still sticky and gooey, rest on his left hip, doesn't even care that the comforter is sticking to it. Doesn’t say anything, but Theo, of course, gets it.

It means he’s ready.

He’s moving behind him, Stiles, now and Stiles isn’t sure what he’s doing, but a few moments later he hears a rustling, like someone ripped open a pack of candy, and realizes that Theo is putting on a condom.

Aw, great.

How thoughtful.

He doesn't even have to see it, the thought alone suffices, together with feeling Theo shift on the mattress, to make this even more real for Stiles which - he feels like he's going to pass out, staring at the wall with his vision all blurry, trying not to jump up and dart outside.

So Theo really wants to fuck like a bunch of – humans here.

He must also have spread some of the lube on his dick because when he slides it between Stiles’ butt cheeks it feels slick and cool, even though it’s rock-hard.

Stiles' breath is hitching in his throat already and his heart is fluttering, God, he’s fucking scared shitless of the pain he’ll be feeling soon, soon nothing but pain, and Theo says, “Shhhh,” again, and then, “Stiles, relax,” and he’s moving his hip, and his hand is down there, too, helping him get ready, find the right position, the right angle.

Then finds it.

Stiles can feel the tip press against his entrance and he’s already biting his lip, bracing himself.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Theo says now. Doesn’t move, his left hand clutching Stiles’ hip bone, his right still on his dick, pressing into Stiles’ butt cheek. It’s the only contact he has with Stiles’ body right now, too, has pulled back a little, so he can do this.

“Just – fucking – shut up,” Stiles mutters. “Do what you have to do.”

“I jerked off earlier,” Theo says and lets out a small laugh, “Believe me, I didn’t want to, but I promised you to show you that this can be fun, too... I promised to help, remember?”

Grim silence from Stiles.

He’s pressing his teeth together and wonders if this bastard is mocking him, if this is another one of his little games, telling him it will be okay, it won’t hurt, and then just _slam_ into him without Stiles knowing what hit him. But he won’t play along.

He doesn’t have hope.

“But I think it might not even be necessary,” Theo goes on and Stiles bites down onto his lip harder because he can feel Theo pressing against his entrance now, moving his hip forward and _soon_ – soon.

“When you’re this – this wound-up,” Theo’s saying now and he lets out a breath between words because yeah, because he’s so fucking _turned on_ , “it shouldn’t take – take much to – to also get you going. That’s how this – how this works anyway.”

And he gasps and there it is.

The tip slides in.

Not easily, no.

Theo is forcing it in slowly because even though it’s all slick and slimy and so is Stiles’ hole still, from the lube, you see, he’s also so fucking tense that his muscles are clenched and he really, really doesn’t want this, so.

God.

But it’s in now.

It’s not much, an inch maybe, but it already stretches Stiles more than his finger ever could have, it’s so solid and large and there’s tears in his eyes already.

Theo quickly grabs his hips because Stiles is inadvertently curling away from him, pulling his feet up to his stomach, but even though Theo is so much more gentle now than last time, so much so that there’s really no comparison, his grip is firm, holding him in place and it hurts a little, yeah, but that’s nothing against the burning sensation in his ass.

Like Theo stuck a torch up there. Like he means to rip him open.

He pushes his dick in further.

Another inch.

Then another.

And Theo doesn’t have a short dick either.

Rather the opposite.

Stiles turns his head, buries it in his pillows and muffles his pained whimpers as best as he can.

He can hear Theo go, “ _Gnnnn_ ,” then breath in and out quickly, can hear him say, “God, you’re tight. _Fuck_.”

And he isn’t inside of Stiles completely, yet, hasn’t bottomed out and probably won’t either right now because Stiles might scream.

He currently doesn’t even know how he’s going to bear this once Theo starts - _moving_.

But Theo – he’s doing something odd now.

His chest is touching Stiles’ back again, he has bent his upper body forward, and Stiles can feel something wet and hot in his neck. Theo’s licking him, nibbling at his skin. Kissing it.

Kissing it, dragging his teeth carefully across his skin, pressing his lips onto the wet spots and Stiles can _hear_ it, too, and it really sounds like they’re about to do it, like they’re doing it, just from the kissing noise and Stiles – he shudders.

Kisses to his neck just do that to him, he can’t help it, and Theo, rather than starting to move, is carefully shifting his hips to the left and right now, slowly and without moving inside of Stiles a lot.

Then, apparently satisfied with his position, he makes a small but quick movement, like he’s tapping Stiles on the shoulder lightly, only it’s not his shoulder, and it’s not Theo’s index finger either.

He does it again.

And again.

And again, and it becomes this soft, rhythmic movement of Theo jerking his penis up inside of Stiles, only a little, without shoving it further in.

Like it’s in the exact right position and Theo says, “It’s okay, Stiles. Just let it happen,” and he’s pressing his mouth onto his skin firmly now and Stiles – he can suddenly _feel_ it.

Theo just loosened him up a little, just the tiniest bit, and he – holy shit.

Stiles suddenly knows what he’s doing, too.

When a shudder runs through Stiles’ lower body, shoots into his own dick, he knows what that _spot_  is that Theo is dragging the tip across. The reason why he worked to get into this exact position.

“H-how do you know how to do this?,” the words stumble out of Stiles' mouth, blurring on their way out because he’s feeling hot, way too hot.

“Instinct,” Theo says and he’s smiling against Stiles’ skin.

“N-no, take it – cut it – out- _stop_!”

“Really, Stiles? So you’re saying you’d rather get raped?”

“This is rape, too,” Stiles grits out and, holy shit, his penis just twitched and it’s growing hard, he can _feel_ it, Lord.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

“Maybe,” Theo is saying now, “but you also like it.”

“It’s a bodily reaction, nothing more,” Stiles says and he really is fighting back tears because he’s so fucking confused, because he doesn’t want for this to happen, really, he doesn’t, at the same time, the way Theo’s dick is stretching him feels hot, all of a sudden, feels dirty and good, and Stiles is hard now, he most definitely is, penis sticking out, pushing into the comforter.

As if that weren’t already enough to deal with, Stiles can hear footfalls in the hallway. His dad is checking the bathroom, probably dump his laundry into the basket on top of the washing machine, then walks over to his bedroom for whatever reason ever.

Theo of course chooses this exact moment to let himself slide out of Stiles an inch more and that’s when he really hits the spot, rubbing over it inside of Stiles and Stiles lets out a moan.

He didn’t really mean to either, like – is it normal that this bastard is able to stimulate him like this when Stiles has only done it to himself once before? Wouldn’t it rather take practice, a long time to sensitize him, to mold his insides into the perfect shape, for his nerves to react in the exactly right way?

Probably.

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure of it.

“Gnn,” and he’s suppressing another moan and this time, he’s almost certain his dad heard it.

He seems to stop outside, in front of the door as if to listen, only for a moment. Then his steps are moving away again quickly, in the direction of the stairs and it’s only when he can hear his dad downstairs that Stiles allows himself to go, “ _Haaa_ , oh- _Gah_...”

He meant to say ‘God,’ but, you know.

Can’t really get it out anymore.

The weird thing is, the fucking oddity here, that the more agitated Stiles becomes, the more nervous and stressed out, the hornier he gets. Like it was enough for Theo to tip him over the edge, to make him slide into that specific mood, and now everything just adds to the tension building in his dick.

Fucking perfect.

Suddenly he knows he’s going to come.

He just knows.

He’s going to come, rocking on Theo’s dick, and it’s in that moment, that Stiles stops caring.

He fucking wants to – God, needs to feel it.

And this is so good, too, holy shit.

Were he stroking himself now, with his own dick so fucking tight and full of blood and patterned with veins already, he’d be spilling all over the sheets within the next ten seconds, but apparently this is not how this is working here.

Stiles is not used to the particular sensation and every now and Theo's movement is still not quite right, too slow somehow and almost the perfect angle but not exactly and - he's doing this on purpose, Stiles just knows he is when he needs this so badly right now. He arches his back, pushes it up so Theo slides into him a little more and lets out a breathy moan and Theo chuckles. It sounds ragged, too, but the son-of-a-bitch is obviously still calm enough to be entertained right now.

Stiles doesn’t care.

The feeling of having this large, pulsating thing up his ass is sensational and his eyes have rolled back into his head. Stiles’ movement made Theo lose the spot momentarily, his dick sliding too far into him, but Stiles is already trembling on the inside a little and just the feeling of stretching around Theo’s dick is enough to send shudders through his body, for his dick to leak pre-cum.

The way it should be anyway, finally.

God.

“I – I just want you to know – that I’m not doing anything here, Stiles. It’s just mechanical. No manipulation.”

“Don’t – care,” Stiles grits out because he really, really doesn’t.

He needed this so, so much.

To be feeling this good.

Theo’s hand is on his left wrist suddenly, wrapping around it, pulling it away from Stiles’ dick and Stiles whimpers. The bastard actually manages to hold him tight in a way that Stiles can move neither of his hands anymore.

The pressure, the tension, is sheer agony.

But with Theo not rubbing over the spot anymore, it doesn't build anymore either. Just lingers, like a tower out of toy blocks that's already slanting, about to tip over, _just about to_ but not _quite_ , not quite yet, anyway.

“Please,” he breathes, “please.”

Can’t even articulate what it is that he wants, holy God, _needs_ , so badly right now.

A hoarse laugh from Theo that turns into, “Shhh-it,” when he shoves his dick in completely, bottoms out for the first time and, yeah, that most definitely hurt, and when Theo does it a second time, pulling out almost completely now and pushing back in with one quick, forceful movement, Stiles gasps.

What follows is five minutes of the most insane mixture of pleasure and pain Stiles has ever experienced.

Completely nuts, he couldn’t describe it if he had to.

It’s this mad succession of wanting Theo to stop and needing him to go on, and the latter especially culminating whenever the tip drags across that particular spot a few inches over his rim but not in the right way.

When Theo comes, his dick jerks and he moans softly for the first time, the first sound from him louder than breathing, Stiles wants to cry.

This is it now?

This is supposed to be the fucking end?

What the fuck is this supposed to be?

And he’s swearing and pulling away from Theo, too angry to touch his own dick that is only halfway hard now.

He’s not in the mood to jerk off, not here, not in Theo’s presence anyway and he’s fucking disappointed even though – he should be glad he didn’t come, right?

When Stiles turns around, shoots up into a sitting position far too quickly – realizing he still has his boxers around his thighs and gripping them, yanking them up and shoving his dick back inside mercilessly – he catches sight of Theo who is standing there now, in front of the bed, and sliding off the condom.

He wraps it into a piece of tissue, throws the small bundle onto the nightstand where it lands with a moist _thud_.

He’s completely naked of course and, God, these muscles. Theo is looking down at his dick, cleaning himself off with another tissue, chest still heaving.

Face flushed.

He looks – Stiles has to swallow.

What the fuck is happening here.

“Stop fucking messing with me,” he mutters, just because he’s so confused, and Theo turns his head to look at him.

His blue eyes meet Stiles’.

“I didn’t really. Only loosened you up a litte, but I think you felt that. The rest was all you, Stiles.”

And of course, of fucking course, there’s this dirty grin on his face now.

“Don’t worry. You’ll come alright soon. Just give me five minutes. Okay?”

“Get out,” Stiles says, but, this time, he’s not sure he really means it.

He’s still turned on and looking at this sweaty, muscular and stark naked dude just – yeah, he always thought nothing could get him going like looking at boobs or a vagina, touching, or even _thinking_ of touching, a girl's private parts, but – seems like he was mistaken.

Looking at Theo’s ass now does something to him.

Theo, of course, catches his gaze, and Stiles quickly averts his eyes, face flushing redder.

“Ha,” Theo says, shaking his head and smiling, “You want to be on top, don’t you.”

“I want you to leave.”

“Yeah, right,” grinning mischievously now. “You want to know what I think?”

“I most certainly don’t.”

“I think you’re torn between wanting to stick your dick into a tight hole and wishing for me to continue stimulating your prostate. Until you spill.”

“Don’t fucking,” and Stiles can’t help it, he buries his face in his palm, “say that. _God_.”

The point is that he can somehow feel his rim pulsate, like the tension that’s still there in his dick is somehow stretching into his ass and even though his hole feels sore and bruised, it also feels wide.

Smooth, somehow.

Like it would be so easy to slide a cock inside now.

Easy and delicious.

Holy shit.

Theo really needs to leave.

But of course, the son-of-a-bitch just stands there, grinning from ear to ear, flashing his perfect teeth at Stiles, and says, “I think you need to come here.”

And he bends down, reaches for another condom and, what the hell – is that a whole stack on Stiles’ nightstand?

When did Theo even put them there?

Stiles flicks his eyes from Theo’s finger clutching the condom up to his face, to the wrinkles on his forehead because he’s lifting his eyebrows at him now, Theo, saying with a voice that’s somehow rough, like he’s talking around shards,

“Come here, Stiles.”


	23. Alpha, Beta, Omicron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steo action. (Eternal?) Sterek. Theo is majorly pissed. STEO.  
> (ah, so predictable...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here it is, my wonderful and perfect readers –  
> NOT the last chapter :D of course not, there is one more and a short epilogue – but it’s all written, just needs to be edited & uploaded. I won’t be able to make it today, but the rest of the story should be up by tomorrow night.  
> and, please bear with me through this one – I wrote parts of it seriously sleep deprived (...lol?) and it shows, I think. really sorry for that, but it’s so long I couldn’t go back and fix everything; I want the story to be up before all of this month's craziness starts...  
> sooo – still hope you like it, my beloved ones and that I didn't screw it up too badly <3 <3 <3

 

 

_... I see you, Stiles._

_Yes, but – is this it?_

_The end?_

_No._

 

 

 

***

 

Sheriff Stilinski turns the page of his newspaper munching his cereal, but from the way he’s grimacing and working his jaws you might think he was trying to chew down a bowl full of rubber bands.

He’s never had cereal at 4 p.m. in the afternoon either. For him, that’s a breakfast thing and the last time he’s not preferred eggs and bacon to milk was, well.

Let’s just say it has been a while.

Yeah, okay, he was kind of hungry.

But he’d have been alright with a bagel, too, or a Pop Tart. Or, ugh, a banana, whatever.

He turns the page and harrumphs.

Another series of suicides over in Treesprings County. Man, the numbers just won’t drop.

Horrible.

What the hell is wrong with this world.

Sheriff Stilinski lifts the spoon slowly up to his face, his eyes never leaving the page. Almost misses his mouth, too, but then shoves another spoonful of the stuff into his mouth and starts chewing.

Chews, and chews.

This wholegrain stuff, right?

_Really_  not his favorite.

But it’s basically the loudest kind of food he could find.

Not that there’s so much noise coming from upstairs, no, the boys have been all in all pretty – measured.

But, you know, it’s just – the bed.

It  _creaks_.

Plus, it’s pushed up to the wall in a way that there’s this gap between the bedframe and the plaster, about one inch maybe, and every time they –  _someone_  – moves around on the mattress, the bed hits the wall with a  _thud_.

Not very loud, either.

Just this low and faint sound that, somehow, seems to go through John’s marrow and bone, almost like a scream.

Stiles and Theo.

It’s – the sheriff halts, shakes his head.

Yeah, he’ll definitely need some time to wrap his head around this.

Puts another spoonful of the healthy disgusting stuff into his mouth.

Picks up chewing around on it again, listlessly.

Swallows.

God.

The stuff is just awful.

How can his boy even get it down.

Used to that they would’ve had Cookie Crisps at home, or Cheerios. But you can’t do that today anymore either, not when you know how freakin’ unhealthy this stuff is.

He wouldn’t really care if it were just about him, you know, but you gotta think of your kids.

And he wants Stiles to be healthy. Have at least one home-cooked meal a day, cut down on the sugar as best as he can. Have some, you know, salad, and stuff, on a regular basis.

He just wants to make sure Stiles will be okay. That his son will get the best start into adult life John could possibly offer him, considering.

You know.

Considering.

There’s a soft moan coming from upstairs, and even though it’s muffled by the several layers of wood and drywall and plaster that are in-between his son’s room and the kitchen, it’s still pretty audible and, well.

It’s Stiles’s voice, too. He’d know it anywhere, no matter how faint.

The sheriff blushes and lets his spoon land in the half-empty cereal bowl with a mixture of a clutter and a  _splosh_.

He pushes his chair back and it scrapes over the tiles which he usually hates and would reprimand his son for doing, but right now, any noise that drowns out what Stiles is doing with that dude up there – that malicious kid, Theo, no less, with the nonchalant smirk like he’s constantly plotting, out of all the available teenage boys his son could have picked – nope, John can’t do it.

He just can’t.

Another moan, louder this time, yup, most definitely Stiles, that turns into something like a breathy, “ _Ah-ahhhh_...,” and the sheriff darts up from his chair.

Screw the cereal.

He abandons the bowl and his newspaper and all but rushes out of the room, grabs his jacket and keys on the way out.

The sheriff had been planning on getting a new set of electric hedge clippers for literally years now, the more fancy kind that are a mixture of garden tool and man toy, but never really found the time to just leisurely stroll through the aisles of his favorite hardware store and chat with the assistant about the pro’s and con’s of a SuperSmith 3000.

But something tells him that today is the day.

It’s this Saturday that Sheriff Stilinski will finally pick out another way too expensive piece of garden equipment that he will be far too happy about. A lot happier than anyone should be about hedge clippers anyway.

And who cares if they don’t really need them.

Having to listen to his teenage son getting physical with his  _boyfriend_  in whatever way – or even be in the vicinity of the house while this is happening, and constantly worrying about what this smug jackass might be doing to his boy – he’d gladly spend five hundred dollars they really don’t have, just so he won’t go ahead and ruin it for Stiles by doing something like, you know.

Kick in the door to his bedroom, for instance – the door Stiles  _locked_  earlier, too, John had acknowledged the distinct  _click_  of the key in the lock with a sigh and a roll of his eyes – and just put a pair of handcuffs on that smug son-of-a-bitch who is currently up there, in bed, with his son, and – doing –

But, come on, why does it  _have_  to be Theo Raeken?

John never had a problem with Malia. On the opposite, he’d been rather worried about the girl at first, Stiles had just been this – this clumsy teenager and girls are, you know. Fragile and all. In fact, even after having been married for years, John had never really figured out their deal.

Now, however.

And they’re picking up speed, from the sound of it, and  _he_  needs to get out here,  _fast_. Stop eyeballing the closed door to his study behind which there’s his safe, and behind the safe door, there’s two guns, his service weapons, carefully stored away and ready to be used.

For work.

In an emergency.

Theo would heal, right? He’s a were- whatever, too, this kid. As if the Raeken boy needed anything to make him appear more dangerous to the sheriff, to make his, John’s, instincts  scream even louder that there’s something wrong with this kid.

That he should really be tasered, rather than just let into his son’s room like that.

Into his bed, even.

But, John, he won’t do any of these things, no.

_No_.

He’s a responsible adult, a good father, and he can deal with his son growing up. Having a love life. Boy or girl, he doesn’t really care, so long as Stiles is happy.

And, boy, is he sounding happy right now.

So he’ll walk out of the house, is doing it right now in fact, just get out of here and into his car and drive to the nearest hardware store. Spend his afternoon there.

Maybe pick up a packet of condoms for Stiles on the way back.

God.

When he’d decided to be a dad and ensured his wife that he’d be there, always, that he could deal with the diapers, and the lack of sleep, and, later, the fits of teenage anger and bouts of stubbornness, that he’d find a way to afford clothes, and food, and college, it hadn’t been a lie, he’d really been up for all of that, and more – but no one,  _no one_  ever said anything about  _this_. Told him it would be like  _that_.

You think coming to terms with their sexuality is hard for teenagers?

Well, go and ask their parents.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles has cooled down.

He’s put on a shirt, pulled up his boxers and has this strong urge to just shove Theo out the door,

Yeah, that’d be better.

He really needs to be alone right now to appreciate the full extent of his humiliation here. To wallow in mortification and self-pity for the next few hours.

Because earlier, you see – well, until five minutes ago, to be precise – Stile shad been  _somewhat_  aroused – alright, alright, he’d been  _really_  turned on,  _holy_  shit – by Theo Raeken.

The dude’s still standing in front of him, stark naked and looking gorgeous – yeah, there’s really no other word for it – gorgeous and insanely buff and Stiles is trying very hard not to stare down at his dick.

It’s limp now because Theo shoved it up Stiles’ ass earlier and, God.

He doesn’t want to turn around and look at his bed that must be reeking of sex. Then again, he also feels like he can’t face Theo anymore.

And, God, he still has this urge in the pit of his stomach.

That low-key agitation like he really needs to jerk off but can’t right now and that means he’s gonna be antsy and just wired for the rest of the day.

And Theo – the maniac is still staring at him, perfectly comfortable with the fact that Stiles looks so unsettled, so destroyed.

“I gotta... mh, my dad’s probably wondering...”

“He left. Earlier. Couldn’t bear listening to his baby boy’s pleasure screams anymore, I suppose.”

Theo’s smile deepens and there’s this sudden surge of aggression in Stiles’ stomach, probably a side-effect of the lingering arousal, and an image shoots into his head, of himself cutting – literally  _cutting_  that stupid fucking grin out of Theo’s fucking face like he’s the fucking Joker, God.

He’s so pissed, and angry, and humiliated, he doesn’t even know what to do, where to turn.

Fuck.

So that’s what it's like when you’re not catatonic after having been raped, but feel the full extent of what you’ve done.

Just toss that last shred of dignity, of self-respect, into the bin right next to your desk.

Then lie in bed, silently and unmoving, wallowing in your shame.

Preferably for the next couple of years.

“I need to,” Stiles starts, eyes still glued to the floor, but Theo, of course, interrupts him.

“I think you need to come here.”

Stiles’ head snaps up and now he’s narrowing his eyes, grimacing.

Putting as much poison into his words as he possibly can when he spits them out.

“I don’t  _fucking_  care what you think. I can’t stand the fucking sight of you anymore.”

“Aw, Stiles, how childish. And perfectly pointless. But that  _does_  give me an idea.”

And he tilts his head a little, as if he’s thinking.

Smiles again, sweetly like he’s made a decision.

Then, darker, menacingly now, almost, “We’re not done, yet. Not by far.”

Okay, he won’t do this.

Stiles won’t waste his breath.

Arguing with Theo is so pointless.

Stiles starts in the direction of the door, quickly, and Theo – he steps aside.

Makes room to let him pass and, on a second thought, that should have tipped Stiles off. But he’s currently too angry to be alert.

He flings the door open – and stumbles backwards letting out a horrified yell.

Holy shit.

What fresh  _hell_  is this?

Theo – he caught him.

Stiles is hanging limply in his strong arms that are wrapping around his whole chest now, slowly, and he’s breathing in and out quickly, heart almost beating out of his chest.

Eyes still on that – that  _thing_  that is lurking out in the hallway.

That’s looking directly back at him with a lidless stare, pupils blown white and black. Eyes being the only thing on its body that is not rotting, not dead and mangled but oddly alive, rolling to the left and right. Then back to Stiles who has slammed his hand over his mouth, trying not to gag.

He’s seen so many of Theo’s creatures in all states of decomposition, but this one’s new. It looks like someone crossed a horse that’s been dead for a week with one of the Elves floating beneath the surface of the Dead Marshes.

“ _Fucking – close –  the door_ ,” Stiles forces out squeezing his eyes shut, but then he realizes that this thing?

It’s  _breathing_ , and it’s the most disgusting sound Stiles has ever heard.

“Holy – what the literal  _fuck_ -”

“Relax,” and Theo’s chuckling. “She won’t hurt you. But I could never say no to you, so...”

And the door flies shut, closes on the horror outside, shuts it out.

Stiles struggles out of Theo’s grasp and turns on him, furious now.

“You fucking  _promised_ , you scumbag! You promised!”

Theo lifts his eyebrows at Stiles’ heated face.

“I promised to not torture anyone, or breathe life into anything already dead. This is Mah-Gog. She’s the keeper.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Let me out of here – just – make this  _thing_  go away!”

“Now, that is hurtful. Stiles... just because her exterior doesn’t  _happen_  to strike your fancy... and she has a right to be here, just like you.”

“Are you  _fucking_  kidding me?!,” and he’s really yelling now, “You – just – fucking  _get out_!”

But Theo just stands there with this trademark nonchalance like he's conversing about the weather.

“You see, I’ve developed a liking for the particularly beautiful and the extraordinarily depraved.”

His smile pulls into a mischievous grin.

“And, I trust that, in your heart, you’re familiar with both, Stiles.”

But Stiles doesn’t even know what Theo’s talking about.

He really wants to rush out, either to get his baseball bat or to just leave.

Vanish.

But this thing, okay?

It’s still breathing outside  _very audibly_ , and – what the fuck is he supposed to do?

The shock of seeing its rotten features and strands of hair stuck to gooey flesh runs too deep and he’s pretty sure that if he happened upon it a second time, he might die on the spot.

So he tries to calm down.

Maybe talking  _is_  an option.

“What’s – it keeping?”

Theo goes, “Mh?” because he has turned to the mirror door of Stiles’ closet and is considering his own naked body, his muscles and limp penis, with a pleased smile.

“Oh.  _Everything_.”

“It’s – she’s keeping – everything...?”

“Everything.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense whatsoever. God,” and Stiles buries his face in his hands, is rubbing his forehead frantically but it doesn’t make the headache go away that he can feel gradually coming on.

“Tssss... sense,” and Theo turns around to face him again with a soft shake of the head.

“Oh, Stiles... sometimes you’re so –  _human_ , it surprises even me.”

“Oh – oh, yeah?”

Stiles wants to say something hurtful, voice his hatred and anger and frustration, this utter helplessness, but from the way Theo is smiling at him now – a different kind again, a  _knowing_  smile, this time – he just knows he lost.

Again.

He feels all the strength, the desire to resist, drain out of his heart and brain and limbs in an instant. So he closes his eyes, only for two heart beats, and says, “What do I have to do?”

He’s tired again, now, can’t do this anymore.

Maybe letting Theo use him once more, even though he clearly already had his fun, is indeed the easiest way out.

He just – fighting this evil smirk is so fatiguing. It just never ends, no matter what Stiles does.

Theo is like a perpetual motion Jack-in-the-box. Only, like, you know. More  _muscular_.

So Stiles is really considering to just go through with it and try not to focus too much on what’s happening.

“I see you’ve made a decision.”

Stiles doesn’t even shrug.

“You’ll make it go away then?”

“Sure. And her sisters, too.”

“Her sis-? – you know what, I don’t even want to know.”

There is a pause during which Theo is considering Stiles – or not, Stiles doesn’t really know, nor care.

This has been happening a lot recently.

In the middle of a fight, or even a conversation, Stiles would just deflate, collapse into himself, feel too tired to go on all of a sudden.

Fall silent, in the very middle of it.

Confirm people’s opinion about what an odd kid he is.

But Theo, he knows why this is, too.

Because, honestly, all euphemisms aside, he has  _broken_  Stiles.

Not all the way, no.

But only just enough.

Stiles jerks his head up when he hears a rustle. Yeah, there’s still that condom in Theo’s hand, but rather than rip the wrapper open he drops the whole thing onto the carpet right where he's standing.

Motions for Stiles to move a few feet to the left, then turn around.

And Stiles obeys.

The lights flick on, as if by magic, because, as Stiles realizes now, the sun is setting outside and it has been gradually growing darker in here, more difficult to see.

And he won’t have that, Theo.

Because for what he has in mind here it’s vital that Stiles see – everything.

Theo has positioned him in front of the mirror, back toward it, and he locks eyes with Stiles who, for some unfathomable reason is sweating.

Theo’s right hand is reaching down now, closing around his own dick.

When he starts stroking himself, Stiles swallows.

Suppresses the urge to throw his head back into his neck and laugh hysterically.

It’s just so odd, the way they’re standing there facing each other, Theo completely naked and jerking himself off with these slow, smooth movements, dead serious expression on his face. Like they’re doing some kind of weird ritual that somehow requires for Theo to come all over the floor.

He’s already hard again, too.

Stiles is still forcing himself to  _not_  look down, to not watch what Theo's doing, but – it’s like he can  _still_  see it, out of the corner of his eyes, even though he's trying to focus on a spot on the wall behind Theo.

Damn the cold neon light that his dad just  _had_  to put in because ‘ _you need at least one bright lamp in your room, son, you’re not a vampire,_ ’ but Stiles stands by his opinion. He really doesn’t.

Stiles mouth and throat feel really dry all of a sudden and he swallows again, but can’t get the itchy feeling to go away.

“Come here,” Theo says, but Stiles doesn’t move. Just stays rooted, back facing the mirror. If he took one step backwards he could touch its smooth, cold surface, melt into it.

He has this inkling of what Theo is about to do and he really doesn’t want to turn around. If there’s one face he’s even less eager to see than Theo’s, it’s his own.

But of course Theo won’t have it.

He jerks his head, repeats, “Come here, Stiles,” with an edge to his voice like he’s going to  _make_  him. And Stiles moves, finally.

“Don’t act like a baby, Stiles. I won’t hurt you, haven’t we been over this? God, you can be so exhausting. Do you want me to put on music?”

Stiles quickly shakes his head.

No, because then he wouldn't just have to take his pillow and comforter out into the garden later and set them on fire, he'd also have to throw out whatever CD Theo would pick and then never listen to the band or any comparable one ever again. And Stiles is sort of attached to certain songs, singers and bands.

So, no, he'd rather if Theo didn't put on music.

The steady breathing outside the door seems to have stopped, but Stiles, he’s dreading its return.

As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, Theo’s hands shoot up, and he clutches Stiles' shoulders, gives them a forceful tug that makes Stiles stumble forward. Then he pulls him into a tight hug.

Arms sliding around Stiles and, again, Stiles just feels  _odd_. Even though Theo had just been spooning him earlier for at least an hour.

But Stiles is pretty sure, he’ll  _never_  get used to this.

To what it feels like when these arms are screwed around his body and he’s being pressed against the warm, broad chest that's a lot softer than you’d think it is. To have the Devil himself put his chin on your shoulder and inhale – a long, drawn breath, and then go, “I need to have you. Now.” What it's like to feel the shudders these words send through your spine all of a sudden so you’re really surprised at yourself. Shocked a little, even.

And, you could have started your list with this, but because it’s so vulgar and so fucking horrible and sends you into the weirdest mixture of fear and arousal, you’re going to mention it now, as if in passing. As if it weren’t dominating all your senses.

Theo’s rock-hard  _dick_  pressing into your thigh, exactly where it meets your hip bone, and – seriously now?

The dude just had like the most violent orgasm ever not even fifteen minutes ago.

Yeah, seems longer, right, but that’s only because Stiles really,  _really_  doesn’t want to be here. It’s like every minute on the clock above his desk that he spends either gazing at Theo’s naked body or feeling it, is ten in reality.

Okay, the dude is all kinds of supernatural, and he’s a teenager, too, technically at least, but does it really make sense that he’s almost panting again now? That the way he’s rubbing up against Stiles so his dick that is squeezed in between their bodies is moving back and forth, catching on the fabric of Stiles’ boxers, tugging them to the left and right, that the way he’s sucking at Stiles' neck as well now, is so incredibly fucking needy? Quite frankly, Stiles doesn’t even know what’s happening.

Apparently, there’s no such thing as low-key with this guy.

And, okay.

Stiles’s neck is just – a very sensitive zone.

It’s probably littered with red bruises from earlier already, feels really sore as a matter-of-fact, but Theo doesn’t seem to care.

“Just – just make them disappear again, later... okay?” Stiles is saying now, voice hoarse, maybe to drown out how nervous he’s getting.

How turned on.

“No,” Theo is breathing against his neck.

Then he finds a spot about an inch below Stiles’ ear lobe and when he sucks on it, Stiles closes his eyes.

Only for a moment, but it’s enough for him to be really horrified when he realizes what he just did.

How he basically  _leaned into_  Theo's mouth.

“Okay, no,” he says and pushes Theo away from him, palms of Stiles' hands pressing against these shoulders that, oh God, yeah - do feel a lot like steel.

Theo, clearly, doesn’t appreciate being told to move because he clutches Stiles’ body to his, pulls him even closer.

“Your body is ready for me,” Theo mutters, voice muffled by the fabric of Stiles’ t-shirt, and, to Stiles’ utter dismay, Theo’s right hand is obviously looking for a way into his boxers. Then finds it. It’s cupping Stiles’ butt cheek and no matter how much Stiles is wriggling and struggling, there’s really nothing he can do about it.

And when Theo’s fingers slip in-between them and touch his hole, something odd happens. Without Theo doing anything, too. Theo isn't doing a fucking thing to ease Stiles into this, but Stiles isn't even sure he  _wants_  to struggle anymore right now.

It’s nothing personal either.

Not like he’s suddenly okay with Theo or anything.

Because he fucking loathes the guy and wants him to die a slow and painful death.

But being held like that – and, you have to understand, he can’t even really see anything right now, Stiles, since he’s facing the wall and Theo’s hugging him tightly, like he wants Stiles’ body to bleed into him, wants to bathe in Stiles’ scent and make his clothes come off like this, dissolve under the friction.

And then a finger pushes into Stiles, glides right in and even though it burns, it also sends shivers through Stiles’ whole body and right into his dick that yeah. Gives a little jerk. Stiles knows there's a wet spot on his boxers now, right where the tip is nestled into the fabric and locked between his and Theo’s bodies, but he doesn’t care because Theo, he’s pushing his finger in deeper and then turning and twisting it a little, carefully and Stiles – he lets out a moan, both a sound of pleasure and desperation.

That feeling surging through is body is so intense that Stiles’ feet are becoming weaker and more rubbery with every second that he can sense his hole closed tight around Theo’s finger. Theo holds him even tighter as if afraid Stiles might just slip through his arms and Stiles – he lets him.

And then, there’s just something to being looked at like you’re the most incredible thing this person has ever seen in their whole life.

Which is what Theo’s doing, now that he has finally let go of Stiles again, has removed his finger so slowly and gently that Stiles had to suppress the urge to scream. Theo's looking at him like that now, yes, like Stiles is some kind of present he got, and for Theo, that’s pretty fucking meaningful, too.

He’s older than Stiles could ever imagine, has walked through more ages than Stiles’ mind could capture, could even  _begin_  to put words to, but then, when he’s staring at Stiles like this, eyes moist and cloudy, cheeks flushed and lips redder than Stiles has ever seen on him before, slightly parted and hair tousled, he looks so fucking young all of a sudden.

Like they’re really just two teenagers who are head over heels for each other and who want nothing else than to get lost in each other’s bodies, to touch each other everywhere, lick each other hungrily and then that feeling of having him bury himself deep inside of you that you’re craving right now, even if the whole world was burning to the ground around you.

Which it might be, at least metaphorically speaking. For some places on the planet, literally, too.

Fire and brimstone, Stiles never really understood.

But seeing Theo’s eyes, he thinks he does now.

And almost like it happens unconsciously, like it’s not he who’s doing this, Stiles moves his right hand. Grabs the fabric of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head in one swift movement.

He closes his mouth – was probably drooling a little, too, but it doesn’t matter – and swallows and Theo, he doesn’t even say anything.

No snide comment, no condescending chuckle, not even a smirk.

He’s panting, is all.

He grabs Stiles’ hips and Stiles, obedient and also feeling a little like he’s drunk, turns around.

Because, clearly, Theo had meant to take him in front of the mirror. Make Stiles see all of it and look himself in the eyes while he’s getting fucked.

Let the humiliation really sink in this time and give him a mental image to torment him to the end of his days.

But Theo lets out a, “No,” and his voice is so raspy and broken that it takes Stiles a moment to understand.

Theo is already shoving him down onto the carpet, forcing Stiles to lie on his back, plastic bristles biting into his sensitive skin. His boxers get yanked down over his hips and legs and dumped somewhere, Stiles doesn’t see because he’s clutching the carpet now, fingers scraping over the scratchy surface, trying to hold on to something but finding nothing.

Holy mother of God.

That feeling.

Theo’s already inside of him and he’s moving – Stiles doesn’t even know how it happened exactly, it just slid in so easily. Okay, he might also have blacked out for a few seconds there, yeah, could be.

Theo has Stiles’ feet draped over his muscular arms so his upper body his resting against his though, even though – the word is not quite accurate because what he’s really doing is pushing into Stiles hard, the thrusts way too strong for anyone to be able to enjoy them and Stiles gasps with every movement Theo is forcing onto his body.

And it hurts, burns, yeah, but, at the same time – there’s this edge of pleasure to it, too.

The way Theo’s dick drags across that spot on his inside and Stiles can feel the tip of his own dick slide across Theo’s smooth skin – he let go of Stiles’ legs to be closer to him and to be able to pin his hands down on the carpet so Stiles wouldn’t give in to the urge to touch himself and thereby soften the pain.

Heighten the pleasure.

“ _Ah_ , too – too – much – not,” Stiles is trying but Theo is leaning forward now and catching his lips with his mouth, sucking out whatever it was Stiles meant to say, and in order to do that, Theo goes all the way in now, bottoms out and Stiles – yeah, he might have screamed a little, sound muffled by Theo’s tongue curling around his.

Because this is really only the third time Stiles is doing this.

You don’t just get used to someone moving around inside of you like that within a few days, and, to these painful thrusts, maybe never.

When Theo pulls back – and not just a little, but he slides all the way out – Stiles is seeing stars at the edges of his vision, black spots dotting the ceiling and closet, top of his desk, and backrest of his computer chair.

“Breathe,” Theo says, “It’s okay. Breathe, Stiles.”

And Stiles does.

Isn’t sure why he’d been holding his breath.

He gets pulled up into a sitting position, then manhandled onto his knees and Stiles doesn't resist, just assumes the position Theo wants him in clumsily.

His cock is hard and pulsating and Theo – when on earth did he even put a condom on?

Stiles who is looking back over his shoulder at Theo lets out a mildly surprised chuckle that grows louder, turns into a hoarse laugh when he can see Theo frown.

He might be going insane.

Then again, you have to admit, just seeing this buff dude with a rock-hard dick, face all flushed and just looking like sex and body dripping with sweat, veins showing all over his arms and throat and even his  _chest_ , black condom on his dick that’s glistening with slick – and then to have this guy pull off a quizzical look, like, right in the middle of it all?

It’s just odd.

“You okay?”

And that might be the single most human thing Theo’s ever said to him and Stiles – he just reacts.

Nods yes.

Completely forgetting for a moment who he’s dealing with here, that’s how far gone he is, holy shit.

He’s on all fours now, feet sprawled and Theo is positioning himself behind him and when Stiles turns his head back again to face his closet – there it is.

He’s looking at his own face in the mirror and if he didn’t know it was him, he wouldn’t have recognized it.

Just the way his lips are full and red, looking almost bruised and hair all messed up, it’s not –

He doesn’t hate the sight of it.

It’s astonishing but he doesn’t cringe at beholding his own face, his arms just barely supporting his weight, that’s how shaky and weak he’s feeling, Theo’s hands left and right on his hips and he’s staring down at Stiles’ ass, as if in concentration, and Stiles – he isn’t repulsed.

Maybe because he’s never seen himself like this before.

Like this isn’t even him but someone else, someone who lets himself get fucked in the ass in front of a mirror, watching his own mouth open in surprise at the first thrust.

Then he’s already being shoved forward and he loses balance, tips over and would have almost faceplanted onto the carpet if not for Theo catching him.

And not just that.

Theo's arm is reaching around Stiles’ upper body and then Theo pulls him upwards so Stiles can lock eyes with himself again. This arm is screwed around his chest, holding him in place, muscles clearly defined beneath Theo's skin.

It’s an odd position they're in now, Stiles' ass sticking out and back bent backwards, kneeling like he means to settle comfortably on his shins but then isn’t, no. Theo is holding Stiles' upper-body in mid-air with his right hand around his chest, left clutching Stiles' hip and pulling it backwards so they remain connected, and Stiles knows that it hurts - not just his knees and the soles of his feet that are scraping over the carpet, the whole position that is unnatural and exhausting, but the way Theo’s dick now barely stays inside of him - it's such a weird angle.

But Stiles doesn’t care, God, he doesn’t care.

Theo is not pulling out and pushing in anymore, either.

He’s making these short, jerking movements with his hips and Stiles feels like he’s being dipped in a tub of hot water, starting, strangely, with his stomach and dick, like it’s running down his legs and upwards over his chest and throat and the skin on his face and making it tingle, getting his whole body to shudder and short moans to drop out of his mouth. And he’s not whispering them either but is making these drawn, throaty sounds that if anyone were in the house right now, they’d most certainly hear them.

And they'd hear how close Stiles is to the edge, too.

“Look,” Theo is saying now and Stiles vaguely registers that Theo’s hand isn’t on his left hip anymore but has wrapped around Stiles' dick.

He can see it in the mirror, too.

The way they’re lined up behind each other, Stiles falling forward a little with every movement but straining to stay in position, to not  _ruin_  what is happening and Theo holding him, his mouth halfway open and shoulders moving because his chest is heaving.

Stiles’ dick sticking out.

His own hands are clutching Theo’s right arm, the one that’s draped across Stiles' chest.

Interesting.

Stiles hasn't even registered he’s doing that, but now that he thinks of it it’s making perfect sense, because he  _has_  to hold on to something, needs to know that he’s safe, that he’ll be okay, with that feeling building inside his body and him being so close to the edge, so fucking close, that he might just lose himself.

Theo is sucking at his neck again, almost angrily, hungrily, and his body is so hot and sweaty against Stiles, and then it happens.

Theo knows before Stiles does because he lifts his lips from Stiles’s skin, raises his head and watches him in the mirror, eyes dark and cloudy.

What Stiles sees while he is coming apart, while his body is being rocked by what could easily be the most intense orgasm he’s ever experienced, it’s his dick shuddering and come shooting out of the tip, and something about seeing it makes Stiles moan louder, sends him over the edge a second time within a few seconds.

He never even knew this was possible.

Then his eyes are closed and he’s being wrapped in that darkness, waves of heat still running through him, his dick jerking violently and Theo’s body everywhere, his hand stroking him, his cock penetrating him, his back, thighs, hips, pressing against his, chest slick and sweaty and hot on Stiles' back and his voice – Theo's voice a breathy, ragged whisper, lips almost touching Stiles' ear, and he’s directing Stiles through it all, from beginning to end, like he’s fucking  _voicing over_  Stiles’ orgasm, going, “That’s good, let it happen, it’s okay, Stiles, let it go, you’re fine, come for me, do it now, that’s good...”

And the most twisted thing of it all is that Stiles does.

He lets Theo talk to him, fucking  _listens_  to every word he's saying. And Theo keeps talking, even though he's shuddering himself now, words stumbling out of his mouth all chopped up because he’s coming hard in Stiles’ ass, but he’s still whispering to him. He’s still holding him.

And Stiles is not even hating it.

It’s hilarious, almost.

The most twisted fucking thing anyone could ever come up with and when Stiles lets himself fall forward, is being lowered carefully onto the carpet by Theo, and his, Stiles's, dick is still twitching and his come is everywhere, sticking to both his body and the carpet, even drops on the mirror, and he can feel Theo’s dick slide out of his sore and bruised butt, Stiles is chuckling.

 

 

 

 

Then he’s sobbing and he doesn’t want to get up from here ever again.

He’ll just plain out refuse to.

Drags his arm across his face, leaves it there.

It’s not so much about what he’s done either. It’s about what he has become.

And he’s shattered, so raw on the outside and inside that none of Theo’s soothing words can get him to snap out of it, not even when he’s using his angrier voice, is commanding him to.

It’s only when a car pulls up to the house – not his dad’s but someone else’s, faster, more expensive, engine running more smoothly, that Stiles is making a first effort to get a grip.

 

 

And yes, it’s really this house that the car stops in front of, and there’s someone getting out now, one pair of shoes hits the gravel, then another one. And another one. The car doors slam shut.

Voices down there, too, and Theo is pulling him up, dragging Stiles’ naked body up to his own for Stiles to rest against his chest, ass pressing against Theo’s limp dick and they’re both sitting on the floor, Theo cradling Stiles with the same kind of gentleness he used to, a long time ago.

Come to think of it, there’s really not that much of a difference.

Just like when he used to make Stiles bleed all over and then, afterwards, hold his little shivering body tight, comforting him. Whispering to him.

Saying his name over and over again, like an incantation.

There hadn’t been anything sexual in the gesture then, just the urgent need to be close to the body he’d worked on.

As if to finalize his claim over Stiles. Like the boy’s desperate, pained yelps and the jerks of his limbs when Theo put the needle, or the scissors, or the lighter, the matches and the knife, to them were beautiful to him, moments of perfection.

But beauty always removes, puts a distance between the object and its beholder.

So, whenever he’d been done with Stiles, had performed his ceremonies on his body with the diligence of an artist and the precision of a surgeon, Theo had had this wild desire to touch him, had sometimes pulled him into a hug almost frantically, but had more often resisted the urge and, by sheer discipline only, let Stiles get away, because he knew the boy needed to believe he managed to get away from his tormenter because he  _wanted_  to, and not because Theo  _let_  him.

So he’d always been capable of this astonishing gentleness and to feel it is almost physically painful to Stiles, yes.

A tenderness, too, that makes Theo’s cruelty stick out even more sharply, like a perfectly crafted relief pushing, straining, out of the smooth marble surface that is Theo’s humanity, all defined but warped, three-dimensional and unnatural and impossible to un-see and yet.

And yet.

That softness and the careful, almost loving devotion to Stiles’ body, they’ve always been there in the background, the foundation for it all, the very engine for anything Theo’s ever done almost.

Stiles can see clearly now.

And, while they’re listening to Derek, Scott and Malia walk up to the front porch, talking to each other in low voices, he’s resting in Theo’s arms and he’s perfectly still.

Lucifer has changed, yes, but not in essentials.

Stiles though.

He closes his eyes in horror.

He’s going to have to face his best friend, his pack.

And he’s not even ready to face himself.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

“You’re a piece of work, Stiles, God... fucking incredible.”

Theo watches while Stiles is fumbling with the button on his pants, not dignifying Theo’s comment with an answer.

They both desperately need a shower but no time for that. Scott, Derek and Malia just let themselves into the house and Stiles already called down to them, telling them that he’s coming, wait a moment, just give me a minute.

They must know that Theo is here – must hear the two heartbeats, maybe smell his scent in the house, and, in a few moments, they’ll also get Stiles’ puffed-up face, his red eyes.

Piece of work, yeah, well.

Theo’s an asshole and a fucking rapist but he might be on to something.

When Stiles turns the key in the lock, opens the door and walks out into the hallway he can hear Theo follow him.

Stiles doesn’t even brace himself, just walks down the steps.

Then stands in front of them awkwardly, hands in the pockets of his jeans, trying not to see them flare their nostrils and grimace at the overwhelming smell of  _sex_  that Stiles is exuding, a nauseating mixture of sweat and sperm and lube, and it's on Theo too, probably, because, well. Knowing Theo, he wouldn’t think of taking it off before following Stiles into the living room.

He couldn’t pass up this perfect a chance to piss Scott and his pack off.

“So,” Scott says because Stiles can’t really get any words out, just hovers, awkwardly, not looking at any of them but sensing the dark looks on his friends’ faces nevertheless. Derek, especially, seems - withdrawn.

_‘Oh, what does he have to be pissed about,_ ’ an obstinate voice in Stiles' head pipes up.

_It’s not like he’s been such a good friend to you._

_Or to anyone._

The faint surge of anger gives Stiles the strength to raise his head, look Scott in the eyes and say, “Hey, uhm.... something up?”

God, just the way every one of them knows  _exactly_  what the problem is, but then they all pretend like everything’s just fine. Like they’re enacting the most painful and painfully real rendition of  _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf_.

“We came to pick you up,” Scott says but how he says it makes Stiles almost snort out a cheerless laugh. Like Scott is trying to put as much meaning into the words as possible, but it just comes out menacingly.

In addition to that, Scott cannot pull off the  _Don’t-worry-it’s-going-to-be-fine look_  at all. He just looks constipated which makes the whole scene a completely new kind of hilarious. And sad.

“Okay. Gonna grab a few things,” Stiles says and he turns around.

He doesn’t even ask  _what for?_  or  _to go where?_

It has to do with Phanuel’s plan.

He just knows it does.

“Wow, being in a pack must be so great,” Theo’s voice in the living room behind him drowns out Stiles’ footfalls on the stairs. “The whole pack is coming to escort you to a sleep over. And where’s it gonna be, mh? What place has Farmiel picked out?”

Stiles freezes on the stairs.

Then turns around, slowly.

They can’t see him of course, because Stiles had almost reached the top step already. Can’t glimpse the shock on his face, nor can he see the horror in the eyes of his friends.

So Theo  _knows_.

He knows.

He always knew.

Oh God.

So, his guardian angel had been wrong.

Stiles is really never going to get out of this.

Even though it’s what he, Stiles, had always been telling everyone else – Theo’s the literal Satan, he’s  _always_  one step ahead, the King of fucking Sneaky, it’s basically his job – yet the horror at the realization is almost too much for him.

He needs to sit down.

Because whatever they’d been plotting, whatever Phanialle had been carefully, diligently working towards here, it's never going to work out now.

Never.

Because the Devil has already put a wrench into the whole thing. Long ago probably, too.

Because he's the  _fucking Devil_.

You can’t beat him at his own game.

Which would be – literally every and any kind of game.

If he’s one of the players – then you’re lost.

Have always been, too.

You’re Young Goodman Brown, you’re Reuben Bourne, you’re Reverend Hooper.

It doesn’t matter that  _you don’t know it yet_.

What matters is that you fucking  _will_.

In time.

And then you’ll be the only one to see clearly which – that’s even more horrible than if you’d never known.

Just like Stiles who’s clutching the banister, staring ahead into the darkness, feet and ass planted on the wooden steps, unsure of whether he’ll ever be able to rise again, not even feeling his own soreness anymore.

Not feeling anything, really, except overwhelming recognition.

“I'm going to fucking end you,” Scott is snarling in the living room and from the sounds of it, he has hurled himself at Theo – or has tried to, Stiles can hear claws scratching over the hardwood floor like a puppy who’s being lifted in the air by the throat and whose feet are still barely touching the ground, frantically trying to to get a hold.

“How dare you – how dare you fucking touch him? You goddamn bastard! You monster!”

Wow.

Scott is really losing it there.

Stiles can’t move.

It’s over.

Game over.

Finally.

Eternally.

 

 

 

 

Hours later Stiles turns over in bed, not his bed.

He’s wide awake in this strange room, all the sounds and smells unfamiliar, their wrongness intruding on his senses, irritating him.

Stiles told them he was in no mood to keep anyone company right now – hell, they had all seen how it is, clear as day, yes.

When Malia had found him frozen on the stairs, she’d pulled him up and hugged him, then told him to not cry which - it hadn't made any sense to Stiles.

He hadn't been aware that he was crying had been the thing.

He’d told them he wanted to be alone, but they’d still made him tag along, to Five Guys for dinner, then over to Scott’s place for sleep because he sure as hell couldn’t stay in his bedroom, they’d all known, and Stiles had been the only one to not get it.

As if he’d forgotten about his mindless sex marathon with Theo Raeken.

Malia had set to work in his, Stiles', room – changed the sheets, picked up and discarded two bundles of tissues into the trash with a look of utter disgust on her face and Stiles couldn’t blame her, he couldn’t, really, because, yeah, he was disgusting, he knew all about it – and Stiles had listlessly and numbly thrown a few things into a duffel bag.

It’s almost hilarious that, obviously, he  _had believed_.

Despite better knowledge, completely against reason, even, the things his guardian angel a.k.a. the terrible and beautiful lady in his kitchen had said, these words had sparked hope in his chest.

It’s only now that he’s realizing his mistake.

And the oddest thing of all is how they’d all been sitting in their chairs at their local Five Guys like they were only  _playing_  at being all normal and human and okay and whole, munching down fabulous cheeseburgers and fries and  _not_  talking about how gloriously their plan had failed – and Stiles didn’t even know what the freaking plan had been – not touching upon the fact that Stiles’ guardian angel was, obviously, the biggest douchebag and loser on the face of the planet.

No wonder evil is reigning supreme in this world.

Ignoring the fact, too, that Stiles had thrown up before, thankfully while they’d still been at his house, and hadn’t let anyone into the bathroom except Theo.

Who Stiles couldn’t get rid of anyway.

He didn’t come to dinner with them though.

Something about how he preferred Chipotle.

Stiles hadn’t even touched his fries, and he knew how grey and disgusting his face looked and how he was still fucking reeking of sperm.

His own and Theo’s.

And, considering, you know, probably also of vomit.

God, he was disgusting.

He'd hated himself so fucking much he'd wanted to make himself disappear, and the fact that neither Scott nor Malia had really managed to look him in the eye, that just – to Stiles, it spoke volumes.

Only Derek, yeah, his eyes had flicked over to him in-between bites and Stiles had really wished they wouldn’t and he honestly hadn't understood how Derek even managed to get his burger down, what with his super keen sense of smell and all.

Malia and Scott had obviously been disgusted, right?

So here he is now, Stiles, stomach empty, thank God, and annoyed at having to adapt to this new environment when there’s already so much going on inside his head.

He’s at Scott’s – in Scott’s bed, as a matter of fact – and even though his best buddy’s bedroom should be almost as familiar to him as his own, it just, strangely enough, isn’t.

It feels foreign.

Something’s off in here and Stiles just can’t put his finger to it, and it’s driving him crazy.

It’s making him fall apart.

Scott isn’t here, he’s sleeping in his mom’s bed because being the pal he is, he knew Stiles needed some space and -

They’d made him shower earlier, yes.

His thoughts are not coherent, they're tumbling about in his head without making sense.

Going to Malia’s had been out of the question.

Stiles rolls over in bed and faces the door and he isn’t even surprised to find Malia standing there. In his, Stiles’ mind, standing by gloomily, and watching him, is now inseparably connected to the very idea of her.

She doesn’t say,  _Can’t sleep?_

_I’m sorry about what happened._

_We’ll find a way out of this yet, for you, you just wait and see._

Because she isn’t fake like that.

Or – is she?

She seems strange to Stiles.

Fits the room.

Just as off, just as oddly wrong.

Shifted, a little.

Like she’s only playing a part, that of being Malia when she’s really not.

And Stiles – he doesn’t think he’s going insane.

He knows this is the truth.

Malia is next to the bed now and her hand is feeling Stiles’ palm.

“Cold,” she says.

“Mh,” Stiles responds.

It’s neither no nor yes, not even an attempt.

It’s just a sound.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

Stiles is staring at her, unblinking, and Malia frowns.

Like she’s wondering whether she should address what’s going on with Stiles’s face right now, but then decides she’d rather not, smart girl, and she continues, “Theo turned my dad into some weird rubber doll.”

Silence.

While that sounds sort of funny, her face implies that it’s not.

That saying it out loud freaks her out to the degree that she needs almost a whole minute to speak again.

“Theo has done something to him – a while ago – that made my dad, like...  sucked his soul out or something, or... I don’t know – killed him on the inside and turned him into some sort of machine, and he looks – off.”

_Like you,_  Stiles thinking.

_Like you, but go on._

“He would only move at certain times, like, for instance, when you came over to the house and he was almost normal, he...” She seems so intent on getting her story out that she doesn’t even realize what day this is that she’s referring to.

What night.

“That’s when I knew he isn’t my brother, Theo. That’s when I knew there’s – there’s no hope. Not like this.”

Her hand is squeezing Stiles’ but Stiles doesn’t move.

Just this lidless stare.

He’s feeling like a fish in a bowl a little here, yeah.

Ha, what an odd image.

He should get a goldfish.

Name him Conrad.

“It’s so – and then he just – vanished. He’s gone. I confronted Theo about it, but he’s just the perfect liar and sneaky – fucking – son-of-a-bitch,” and her chest is heaving, she’s so angry Stiles can feel it, her grip on his hand is painful now, “claims that he doesn’t  know anything about it, but will  _investigate_ ,” and she snorts, “God,  _fucking_  – okay. Never mind. So – I think we’ll still go through with the plan. Phaniel – scares me, but it’s the best shot we have and Theo-”

“ _Don’t_  say his name.”

Stiles is mildly surprised.

The voice almost didn’t sound like his, it was so angry and broken.

“What?”

Her face is only dimly lit. The light out in the hallway also sort of mitigates the darkness a little in here, so he can see her puzzled look.

“Don’t fucking say his  _name_.”

“Whose name? Theo’s?”

“Shut up!”

He yelled that one and before he knows it, he has darted up from the mattress, pillow landing in the floor. He's clutching his hands over his ears, so furious, he wants to hurt her.

Why can’t she stop saying the fucking name, he just doesn’t get it.

You tell someone to stop, beg them, and they still don’t, what are you supposed to do with people like that?

Mh?

Why – the fuck – can’t they listen?

This is everything that’s wrong with this world, it’s – Stiles can’t do this anymore, he’s so tired.

He only registers vaguely that Malia is backing off with this expression on her face like she’s horrified which is hilarious if you think about it, considering how  _she_  is the fucking  _oddity_  in here,  _she’s_  the one pretending to be Malia when she’s not and Stiles doesn’t fucking play anymore.

He’s done.

He will – he won’t –

“Shhhh, Stiles,” and he’s being pulled into a hug. No idea whose arms these are, though. Not Malia's, that's for sure.

Stiles doesn’t know what’s happening, but when he feels a shirt in his face, feels his face on the smooth fabric, he can feel that he’s grimacing.

Like he’s crying.

“Holy – Malia, what the hell happened?”

It’s Derek’s voice and, yeah.

These are Derek’s arms too that Stiles is struggling to get out of, desperately, like he’s currently being choked to death while the people in the room are chattting about his condition.

“He’s – he – he went nuts when I said –  _his_  name,” more cautious now, obviously.

“He keeps saying I’m not Malia and – something about buying a fish.”

A noise from Derek, like he understands.

“I didn’t mean to – I thought – I’m sorry,” Malia is saying now, but Stiles can’t see her. His face is still buried in Derek’s chest.

He’s calming down.

Is realizing only now what and odd reaction it is to hug someone who’s clearly going insane.

Stiles swallows.

Holy shit.

That’s what that is right?

He's losing his freakin' mind.

It's over now, but - it lasted long enough for Stiles to completely freak out on Malia and, apparently, cause everyone else in the house to wake up.

“I know,” Derek is saying now and Stiles can feel his throat vibrate when he speaks. “It’s – it was all too much. It makes you – see things, say things. I – I remember that from when-”

But he falls silent.

Stiles swallows again.

He’s trembling now, for real.

“Good Lord, what on earth is going on in here?! You do realize I have to get up in two hours, Scott?”

That’s Melissa McCall.

No one apologizes and Stiles wants to make up for it by yelling how sorry he is.

Because he really truly is.

For being such a piece of shit.

But he literally can’t get himself to physically do anything but shake violently.

“Stiles?”

Derek’s arms slacken, like he relaxes them – or lets them get pulled apart by someone else? And Stiles, somehow, inexplicably, is relieved.

He shouldn’t be, he knows that, because now Scott’s mom is getting dragged into this, but – she at least doesn’t expect anything from Stiles. Her touch is always soothing and her caress so motherly, it’s the closest Stiles can come to feeling safe right now because Derek's embrace?

It was stifling.

Stiles lies back down on the bed and lets her feel his forehead, doesn’t even flinch when a light is being switched on and she’s examining his face, voicing her disapproval at how seriously fucked up Stiles looks.

Not her exact words, but, you know, along those lines.

Stiles obediently swallows whatever it is that she shoves in-between his lips after having felt for his pulse, after having Scott tell her that nothing is wrong with Stiles  _physically_ , not they they knew of at least, they  _hoped_ , God, they really hoped.

But maybe she could make sure.

They could all leave and she could make sure.

And questions are being answered for him.

No, Stiles doesn’t need to go to the ER, he probably just needs some rest.

Stiles nods his approval.

What would they even tell the doctor and nurses?

That Stiles slipped into full-blown paranoia for a moment that made him think Malia was an impostor? Awesome, they'd send him to Eichen House and we all know how that one ends, right?

Stiles means to weigh in, but then cannot even follow the conversation.

Probably because he’s already falling asleep.

 

 

 

When he opens his eyes the next day he feels worse than he’s ever felt before.

Physically.

His mind is a lot more peaceful, however, than he thought possible.

Except – except he’s mortified.

He knows what happened.

What this had been.

He’d had a meltdown.

Bordering on plain weirdness.

He knows all about it too, of course. About how, after an extremely stressful day, you can get a massive panic attack while lying in bed and trying to fall asleep. It happens when your body is relaxing and you think - you think you're fine now, it's over, you made it.

And then the panic attack hits and - depending on the day, right, it can make you think - it can make you think your parents were replaced by aliens or someone poisened your food. But then it stops and you  _know_  you were being silly and you know, there's nothing wrong with your brain. Because as long as you can look back and go 'Nah, I was just being crazy, it wasn't real' - you're fine.

So, yeah.

He's fine.

He's fine, but - that wasn't the first time this happened to Stiles is the thing.

But Stiles had always figured that it had been because he’d only been a kid then, more vulnerable.

Back when.

Theo had been there every time, too.

And afterwards Theo had left him alone for longer than he’d usually have.

Weeks, once.

So Stiles could recover, oh yes, Stiles understands now.

And yesterday, holy shit, his whole pack had been present and Stiles – he buries his face in his hands.

Walks out of Scott’s room and into the bathroom.

He can hear them all talking downstairs, has no idea what time it is, but since it’s Sunday, it doesn’t really matter.

Wow, these bruises on his neck.

It’s where Theo kissed him, of course.

Even though it rather looks like he’d tried to suck Stiles’ blood through his unbroken skin. Impossible to cover that shit up.

Too many, plus too little knowledge on Stiles' side about how to apply make-up. Not that he happens to have any on him either.

And his ass is hurting like hell.

He doesn’t have to lift his shirt – oh, look at that, Scott’s shirt, now when exactly did that happen? – to know that his hips must be blue and purple, too.

Stiles bruises easily and Theo had been – okay, no, he hadn’t actually been violent but they’d had sex twice.

And quite heatedly.

Shame is burning like hot coals in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about it.

Because his pack knows.

And because Stiles fucking enjoyed it.

He almost decides to sneak out the window like the embarrassing and ungrateful son-of-a-bitch that he apparently is, but Scott catches him before he can go through with it.

Must have heard him unlatch the window.

Had probably been listening for movement upstairs, too, for any hint that Stiles might be up.

Scott puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and gently directs him down the stairs and into the kitchen where Mrs. McCall and Malia are having breakfast and waiting for them. The two women are smiling at him when he enters the kitchen, genuine smiles, like they’re really happy to see that he’s up and just freaking glad that he can actually walk down here himself.

Stiles avoids their gaze and takes a seat, muttering, “Sorry.”

And then things get a little better.

Turns out, they understand.

They really do, and they forgive him.

For being so  _fucking_  weird.

Malia, apparently, is currently crashing, or, you might say,  _living_ , at Scott’s place, in the room where Isaac used to stay, and she and Melissa McCall seem to get along so well that Stiles suddenly feels like he is being fussed over by two mothers which – it’s not too bad.

Sure, he doesn’t deserve it, but – he can pretend, right?

 

 

When he’s home again, he’s already missing Melissa’s soothing touch on his shoulders, the way she’d put her hands there to say, it’s gonna be alright Stiles.

And she can believe it, too, because she doesn’t know the truth.

Stiles does, but he appreciates the effort.

So he’s home now, still feeling utterly wrecked from so many things at the same time, it’s exhausting to even list them.

He’s staring at the carpet, eyes fixed on a spot he’s discovered there - that he, Stiles, put there when he came all over the carpet. One of many probably, but he’s only inspecting this one right now, when his phone starts buzzing.

He jumps like it’s the last sound he ever expected. Darts over to the desk to answer his phone, then to the dresser because that’s where he really dropped it.

Stiles doesn’t even bother checking caller ID when he swipes his finger across the screen – because who is gonna call him, Satan? Harhar, hilarious – so he’s surprised to hear Derek’s voice at the other end.

“...hey, er. It’s Derek. Er.... I was wondering if – are you there?”

Stiles quickly nods, then remembers that Derek can’t see it and says, “Yeah.”

Clears his throat.

He knows he should be angrier and all, but giving someone the silent treatment is just not him – he can keep that up for 24 hours tops and even then, he’s usually really hurting inside.

Right now, he’s mostly mortified and wondering just how much of a pathetic spazz Derek really thinks he is.

God.

Back to having a crush on the dude.

Fuck.

“I was wondering – er... would you mind meeting me for a brief talk?” Then quickly adds, “Nothing bad, just – er. Nothing bad, not gonna – not gonna repeat any of the things I, er... were so much of an asshole to say before.”

“You really were an asshole,” Stiles says which is met with silence on the other end.

“...but yeah. I guess you can come over. It’s not like I’m gonna do a lot of school work anymore today anyway, so....”

“I meant, like, more of a – could you meet me at Bernie’s in an hour?”

“That Cafe on Main Street?”

“Yeah.”

“Well... okay? Sure. I’ll be there around five.”

They say goodbye and Stiles pushes the end-call button.

Now what on earth is this about. Stiles really hopes it’s not Derek’s renewed attempt to make Stiles  _talk through stuff_. But then, he said it won't be, so – yeah.

But he sort of gets why Derek wouldn’t want to come to Stiles’ house to talk. His room probably still reeks of his and Theo’s combined bodily fluids and just.

Ugh.

Right?

 

 

 

The door chimes as Stiles pushes it open. As soon as he sets a foot into the crammed place that’s mostly filled with students and way too much furniture – that’s probably why it’s been such a trendy place to be recently, tsss... hipsters, God – he spots Derek who’s already waiting for him at what’s probably the table farthest away from the windows.

Derek looks up, and their eyes meet and Stiles’ heart skips a beat.

Oh, that’s not good.

Ever since he admitted to himself that he had more than a little man crush on the dude, his heart does that. Like every single friggin time. Very annoying.

The Cafe is self-serv, so Stiles turns towards the cash register, all the while feeling Derek’s eyes on him. He orders a latte and, while waiting for his order he keeps his back deliberately turned towards where Derek’s sitting and still staring at him, Stiles tells himself that he shouldn’t be so confused and awkward.

Just think of the things the dude said to you, and, yeah, not so long ago.

But when he picks up his cup and starts walking toward the table, he has these intrusive thoughts about this whole scenario feeling like a first date.

_Shut up, internal Stiles._

_It’s not._

_It most definitely is not, what is wrong with you._

Plus, most uncomfortably, the images from the previous day are also lingering in his mind, of him, Stiles, screwing Theo, and coming completely apart and moaning like some chick in a porn movie.

Also his ass is so freaking sore, Stiles has trouble walking like a normal person, and not like someone who got roughly buttfucked only 24 hours earlier.

He still can’t believe all of this happened. That he had sex with Theo and not just once, not just twice, but three times total within the past few days and he still feels like he’ll never get used to it, even though this is gonna be his life, obviously, from now on until all eternity. Or until Lucifer gets bored.

God, he’s such a mess.

Derek obviously thinks so too, because as soon as Stiles has walked up to the table, he considers Stiles’ pale face with a worried frown, but then doesn’t comment on it. After all, he’s seen Stiles yesterday evening. So he’s of course familiar with the very visible hickeys on Stiles’ neck, the ones that the shop assistant couldn’t help but stare at for a few seconds before she took his money and finally averted her eyes down to the register.

Derek’s gaze is lingering on his neck, too, now, and Stiles uncomfortably tugs up his sweater.

He wasn’t really thinking when he ran out of the house, or he would’ve put on something else.

Stiles takes a sit, puts down his cup (thank  _God_ , he made it here without tripping and accidentally dropping the steaming hot thing over someone’s scalp), and clears his throat.

Looks up at Derek who stares back at him, obviously not even thinking about saying anything in the foreseeable future.

Well, good.

This is not awkward at all.

“So... what’s up?”

Derek straightens his back and clears his throat, then clutches his own cup that is half-empty already.

“Er... I – meant to – apologize.”

Stiles blinks.

He did expect something like that, but it’s really not like Derek needed to make an appointment with Stiles specifically for that. While Stiles always figured Derek would be more the old-fashioned type, you know, writing love letters to a girl and buying flowers, from experience he knew that he was big on avoiding uncomfortable situations.

Preferably by leaving the fucking country.

So.

Yeah, color Stiles surprised.

“O-kay? Ahem. Right, er. Apology accepted. If you never repeat any of that stuff ever again, that is.”

Derek flicks his eyes up to Stiles’ face and immediately goes, “I won’t.”

Then they dive into an awkward conversation about what Stiles is doing in school right now, and whether Derek is more an Xbox or PSP person, and Stiles is asking himself more and more what this is. After about fifteen minutes (that feel more like forty-five) - Derek’s cup is empty - Stiles decides it’s time to voice what he’s thinking.

“So – you didn’t ask me to come here so we could chat about how much you like MMORPGs,” and, to Derek’s frown, “I’m assuming..”

“As a matter of fact – no. I – actually, I asked you to come here because I wanted to do this in a, like – a more neutral zone. So you – er – can walk away, I guess.”

A crooked smile, mixture of an embarrassed frown and a ‘ _haha, just kidding_ ,’ that, somehow, looks adorable on his face.

“Okay?” Stiles says because he doesn’t really know what else to say.

Then, because another silence is about to descend on them and Stiles really can’t bear the tension anymore, “Shoot.”

Derek shifts in his chair, takes his leather jacket from the backrest and throws a glance into Stiles’ cup. It's almost empty. Somehow, whenever Stiles hadn't known what so say, he'd taken a sip, so, with the whole conversation being awkward as hell, he'd sort of downed his steaming hot coffee. Great. A blistered tongue to go with his bruised neck and sore butt. Just - pain everywhere, like it even matters...

“Where are you parked.”

Okay?

Starting to get  _really_  odd here.

“Next to the JC Penny.”

Derek snorts.

“Typical. At the other end of the parking lot.”

“Well, I didn’t see your fancy-ass car sitting right outside either,” Stiles says defensively.

“My – so you think my car is pretentious.”

Stiles gulps down the last sip of one of the worse lattes he’s had in his life.

“Ahem. I thought that goes without saying.”

Derek snorts out another laugh which somehow relieves the tension a little.

Still.

It’s hard for Stiles to forget all the crap that happened to him and between them throughout the past weeks, so the silence that ensues because he’s walking behind Derek out of the Cafe is a rather gloomy one.

“Okay, we’re outside. Now, shoot. Tell me that I didn’t just drive all across town for a half-assed vanilla latte.”

Derek mouths  _vanilla latte_  with a grimace, like it’s Stiles fault for ordering something so ridiculous. Then he starts walking, apparently just assuming that Stiles will follow.

“Er – Derek?”

“I – don’t know how to say this, okay?”

Derek’s walking fast, like he’s trying to outrun the conversation.

“It was wrong of me to say all these things to you, especially when – when-”

“Yeah, I got that,” Stiles quickly cuts him off.

He’s not ready to discuss what Theo did to him.

Never will be, either.

“I really meant to check if you’re okay and I – I don’t even know why I said-”

“Alright, I got it,” Stiles grits out. God, what in  _I don’t fucking want to talk about it_  is Derek not getting?

They’re at Stiles’ Jeep now and Stiles is about to get in, sort of pissed off at Derek for being so fucking weird, when Derek says, “I hate that he’s fucking touching you. Okay? I fucking – want to rip his throat out. It shouldn’t be  _him_ , alright?”

Stiles freezes.

Turns to him, almost dropping his keys.

“What?”

“It’s not just because you’re pack, either, it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re his possession or slave or something and I... I can’t  _deal_  – fuck, why is this so hard?”

Derek is rubing his forehead with both his hands, then runs them through his hair and it looks like he wants to pull fistfuls out of his scalp.

Stiles has never seen him this agitated before.

Never.

“I – think I might have been the biggest illusional dumbass on the face of the planet because from the moment he first put a finger on you, I just...  _God_. And he  _knows_  it, too.”

Stiles stares at Derek struggling to put into words what he’s thinking, and he feels compelled to, somehow, respond, so he clears his throat and says, “Okay...?” and it comes out squeaky and he’s pretty sure Derek didn’t catch it because when he looks up to Stiles he’s already rambling again.

“It’s – I admit that I – maybe ......that you-  _Fuck_ , I’m just – I’m not  _good_  at stuff like that.”

He falls silent, a hint of red around these marvelous cheekbones and it’s hard to tell whether it’s from frustration or from something else.

Keeps running his right hand through his hair like this is driving him nuts, like he might snap any moment.

It’s enough for Stiles to stare at him, mouth agape, hand still on the door of his Jeep, but completely forgetting that it’s sitting right next to him and that he really meant to get in until a few moments ago. Get in and just leave Derek standing here.

Derek pipes up again, goes, “So what I’m –  _saying_  is... I...,” but then he doesn’t finish the sentence, just stares Stiles in the eyes as if hoping he’ll find the words that are still missing for it to  _mean_  in there somewhere.

And how is Stiles supposed to react to that?

He might be dreaming – he might be completely delusional, yeah, but to  _his_  ears it sounded like Derek just admitted that while Stiles had been crushing on him, fallen for him a little bit, even, Derek had been liking him right back.

Yeah, Stiles knows that having to witness what he had, Derek, had been about the last fucking straw for him, but Stiles had figured it was the same as it had been for Malia or would have been for Scott, for all his friends. But this – feels different.

Does that mean that Stiles hadn’t been mistaken?

That Derek’s habit of throwing him silent glances, a little more frequently than you’d expect, had always meant something?

Other than anger, that is.

Or maybe it had really been annoyance with Stiles in the very beginning, when every time Stiles had even opened his mouth, there’d been this incredulous look on Derek’s face, either a  _good how dumb exactly are you?_  or simply an  _I can’t believe you’re still fucking talking_.

But then it had gradually changed, and the looks of unvoiced annoyance had turned into – side-glances.

But Derek’s face in these moments Stiles had caught him staring?

Absolutely unreadable.

So – so maybe – maybe it had meant  _something_ , hadn’t just been that Derek had been tired or whatever.

So... what are they going to make of it now?

What is he, Stiles, supposed to say?

It’s just one of the oddest situation Stiles has ever been in with this man, in a positive sense that is, and, quite frankly, one that he never saw coming either.

Then again, he also never thought he would get brutally raped one day with Derek in earshot to overhear everything, so. Guess you could say, you’ll ever know what the future holds.

Derek is still standing there, gaping at Stiles like he forgot how language works.

Stiles clears his throat for what must be the hundredth time now, infinitely awkward and his cheeks are very red, too. He looks down at his own sneakers and has finally made up his mind to say something, when he’s being grabbed by the shoulders.

His head snaps up, just in time to realize that Derek’s face is really close and a moment later, Derek is already kissing him, pressing his mouth down onto Stiles’. It ends up being nothing more than a peck on the lips, nothing passionate or anything, but when Derek pulls back his face is bright red and because his hair is sticking up oddly on the sides from him repeatedly fisting his hands into it, he does look legitimately mad.

Wild.

Stiles can see him swallow, then open his mouth to say something, then abruptly and very  _not_  smoothly, turn around and quickly walk away, and his shoulders are so stiff, his whole body so tense, he looks more like one of those humanoid androids than the fast and agile wolf he really is.

Uncanny, almost.

Stiles is following his retreating figure, is still standing there and staring ahead minutes after Derek vanished between the cars.

That.

Wow.

It – okay.

Stiles finally shuts his mouth, turns to his Jeep and gets in, so seriously confused and fucked up that the tears start coming as soon as he’s turned the key in the ignition.

 

 

 

He’s not sleeping in his bed.

Turning and turning on the mattress that Scott usually crashes on whenever he sleeps over and that Stiles dumped on the floor by the window, far away from his closet with its big sliding mirror door, the images keep haunting him and – he might really go insane. Stiles feels that it would be a logical consequence to all of this.

Has he calmed down?

Yes, a little.

Is he okay?

Holy fucking God, no.

No, he’s not okay.

And about Derek – Stiles is – he is legitimately so confused that he doesn’t even know whether he’s happy about what happened.

The kiss, that had been too quick for the supernatural powers inside of him to act up, so all’s well with the pact.

He won’t be peeling out of his skin any time soon, thank God.

That would be about the last thing he’d want to deal with right now.

But Stiles has spent a lot of time and energy on convincing himself that not only is he really not in love with Derek Hale, but that the guy’s a huge dickhead and just not worth fussing over.

That the only reason Stiles is feeling what he’s feeling is because he’s just deeply and irrevocably traumatized. Fucking damaged beyond repair.

When he turns to face the wall beneath the window he lets out a frustrated sigh. Lingers in this position for a few moments, then rolls flat onto his back again.

His hips are bruised and raw and sensitive and lying on the side – his favorite position to fall asleep – just not an option.

He buries his face in his hands, rubs his forehead and eyes, but it doesn’t help, there’s a gnawing pain in his head and he won’t be able to shut down his thoughts, not anytime soon.

What is he supposed to do?

What is he supposed  _to fucking do_?

 

 

 

 

On Monday morning, a gloomy atmosphere is looming over the classroom. For most of the boys and girls in here, the reason is their upcoming SATs and the pressure is so strong and heavy you can almost touch it. Joanna had a nervous meltdown just this very morning right in the middle of History when she accidentally snapped the tip of her sharpie while taking notes about Louis Fourteen.

Stiles and Scott, however, as for them, they couldn’t care less about test scores and college applications. And the reason for that of course is currently reclining in his seat in the back row, like fucking Geoffrey on the Iron Throne, showcasing a disgusting nonchalant grin that literally nothing can wipe off his stupid fucking face.

Bragging over how he can, and will continue to, fuck Stiles no matter what Scott says, thinks or intends to do about it, seems to be his new favorite pastime.

Not explicitly, thank God, but, nevertheless, Theo’s dirty smiles and allusions to certain sounds that Stiles made or what his face looked like during climax – it’s making Stiles nauseous.

God, he just hates the smug son-of-a-bitch.

It doesn’t really help that Theo hasn’t even tried touching him or invading his personal space in any way. Stiles’ butt is still hurting, not the throbbing kind of acute soreness, but it’s still there, low and lingering, impossible to ignore.

Then, after lunch, it suddenly seems like there might in fact exist one single thing in the entire universe that could do away with Theo’s extraordinarily cheerful mood.

Derek started texting Stiles during fourth period.

Stiles usually keeps his phone on his desk at all times, you know, just in case - it’s an old habit really, more than anything else – and hidden from their teacher’s eyes, shoved halfway underneath his textbook and when the display lights up, Stiles discreetly turns it around so he can throw a look at the icon that popped up.

It’s a Whatsapp message by Derek Hale – an empty icon, of course, as if Derek would bother uploading a picture to his account – and Stiles can feel his heart rate pick up speed. He sweeps his finger across the display and taps on the icon.

_> > Pack meeting my place, 4pm sharp_

Right.

Derek is exactly the kind of guy who’d omit prepositions, but then make the extra effort and key in a command to not be late.

When Stiles turns his head to face his best friend, meaning to shoot him a quizzical look as in,  _why isn’t the pack meeting scheduled by the alpha?_ , he’s met with such an open and genuinely happy smile that he understands.

Scott already knows about it. He probably set Derek up to message him, too. Stiles really needs to have a word with him. You don’t just ship your human friend with Mr. Sourwolf when he’s sort of engaged to the Lord of Hell.

Scott raises his eyebrows expectantly, as if nudging him to respond and Stiles rolls his eyes.

But then he does message back.

_> > ok_

_> > Who died and made you alpha._

And then, because Stiles is Stiles no matter how shitty and fucking broken he’s feeling on the inside.

_> > let me rephrase  
>> what series of unfortunate events eliminated everyone else on the list and left you in charge of this_

Then Stiles is staring at the display and when nothing happens for at least a minute he starts worrying he might have pissed Derek off or, worse, hurt him, but then the display lights up once more.

_> > very funny stiles_

Stiles is grinning silently down at his phone and thinking that yes, he  _is_  funny as fuck, screw Derek Hale’s dry sarcasm. Ignoring the meaningful smile his best friend is shooting him now.

God, Scott can be so – so embarrassing. He’ll make a great dad one day.

Stiles messages back two or three more times, not paying attention to anything their history teacher is saying, but then, the good woman never paid any attention to her class either so, it’s really just fair.

Bickering with Derek on Whatsapp is the most normal Stiles has felt in ages. Makes him almost forget the wild and driven look in Derek’s eyes when he confessed – was it a confession? – that he  _likes_  him, or at least that’s how Stiles chose to understand it anyway.

When he walks out of the classroom later, he isn’t, for once, upset anymore.

Nervous, yes, but no excessively so.

In fact, he’s sort of curious about what’s going to happen now, even though he knows he shouldn’t be.

Because what good could he expect from the future, right?

When Stiles feels Theo’s gaze linger on him he turns his head to meet his eyes and there he is. Theo is leaning by the door, face not cheerful, lips a grim line and looking over to where Stiles is swiping his textbook into his bag.

Ignore him.

Theo has no right to spoil every little thing in your life.

So Stiles closes his backpack and swiftly walks past him and out into the hallway, just pretends that the dude didn’t position himself there on purpose to talk with Stiles on his way out. The thing is – Stiles is not to crazy about Theo demanding to see his phone. Not that he has to hide his conversation with Derek, but – he just can’t take any shit from Theo today.

And it would have worked, it really would have – if it hadn’t been for this: when Stiles walked out of the classroom he accidentally brushed the doorframe with his right hip, lacking, as always, that smoothness of movement that others just naturally possess, and the sting it sends through his lower body, just from bumping against the wood with his bruised skin – it’s a painful reminder of what reality looks like.

Yeah.

Still Theo’s.

Forever and fucking always.

 

 

 

And he should have known, too, Stiles.

That Theo wouldn’t just stand idly by, not say anything about the way Stiles is being sort of cheerful today, so out of character for him lately.

During lunch, Theo sits at their table, and he doesn’t nonchalantly drop his tablet down opposite of Stiles the way he’d usually do.

He lowers it down slowly and with intent, his eyes never leaving Stiles’ and then lets it smoothly and completely soundlessly, connect with the table top.

And Stiles, he swallows.

Once, twice.

And he hasn’t even started on his soup yet.

That pleasant and light feeling in his stomach?

It’s gone and he really wonders what Theo’s fucking problem is.

It’s not like Stiles is so different today.

Yeah, he’s probably less depressed and empty than he should be after a fucking involuntary sex marathon with that bastard, but, you know.

You can’t always be down. At a certain point it either gets you and shatters your will to live or, you bounce back, somehow, a tiny little bit.

For self-preservation.

Just when Stiles decides to ignore Theo and focus all his attention on Malia and Mason who are discussing some action movie, never at ease of course as long as Theo’s so close to them – just when Stiles’ spoon touches his lips and he realizes that the soup is too fucking hot and his mouth is still hurting from yesterday’s coffee, his phone buzzes.

Theo immediately goes, “Who is messaging you?”

He doesn’t even pretend like he’s about to eat.

His casserole and salad sit in front of him, still warm and untouched, but they might as well be a chewed-up rat. (And Theo’d probably have more fun with the rat. He’d never particularly  _understood_  eating anyway.)

Stiles shrugs, takes the time to tilt his spoon and let the soup trickle into his mouth and thinks that it tastes way too much like coconut for a dish that supposedly doesn’t have any coconut in it, then swallows and says, “We scheduled a pack meeting.”

Quickly adds, just to be sure, “And  _you’re_  not invited.”

“You’re lying,” Theo immediately says, even though Stiles knows that Theo knows that he isn’t.

Because he isn’t.

But his heart might have skipped a beat nonetheless.

Stupid thing.

Can’t catch a break.

He feels Scott scoot close to him, like he wants to shield Stiles from Theo merely through the act of being as physically close to his best friend as possible, says, “Can’t you just fucking leave him alone for a minute? Go sit somewhere else – preferably where we don’t have to see your stupid face.”

Stiles’ heart is beating loudly now and Scott turns to look at him with surprise, but Stiles is watching Theo whose eyes widened, only a little bit, and if Stiles weren’t so alert all the time, if he didn’t know Theo’s face almost as well as his own, he might not have noticed.

As it is though, he does notice and then he knows it’s too late, something bad.

“It’s Derek, isn’t it.”

Scott frowns and Malia is still talking with Mason and Liam, oddly loud now, too, as if they’re trying to keep themselves from listening in.

Keeping up the pretense of normalcy for as long as they can.

Stiles doesn’t say anything.

He just sits there, shoulder pressing into Scott’s, and stares back into Theo’s eyes, lips pressed firmly together. Mind a blank.

“I see,” Theo says and it’s in this low voice that scares Stiles the most because it’s only ever so fucking calm after Theo made up his mind about something.

“Didn’t Malia tell you?”

And as soon as her name drops out of Theo’s mouth, Malia falls silent. Because, yeah, of fucking course she’d been listening in. They all had.

Her back toward Theo and she doesn’t turn around.

But she doesn’t continue talking either.

And for Stiles – he can’t help it, he should know better, he really  _should_ , but he just can’t help it and he says, “Malia, tell me what?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But he knows Theo isn’t full of shit, just from the way Malia’s shoulders stiffen and she’s still not looking at them. Something is up, it’s painfully obvious.

And Stiles – oh yes, he remembers alright.

Had almost completely forgotten about that, too, for a moment there.

He’d been in a really dark place when he’d assumed that Derek’s with Malia now – who is his niece, after all, and Peter Hale’s freaking daughter.

After yesterday he just figured – or no.

In fact, he hadn’t even been thinking about it anymore at all.

It all comes back to him now though, and with such force that he feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice into his stomach.

“Tell him,” Theo says now because no one has been speaking a word for at least half a minute now.

Malia abruptly rises and, without turning around even once, slides the handle of her backpack over her shoulder.

Stiles can see Scott throw her a shocked look which – that really doesn’t make things any better for Stiles.

Theo, however, seems to be in a particularly bad mood since last period because he grabs Malia’s wrist so abruptly that Stiles doesn’t even see it happen.

He doesn’t turn it or squeeze it. Just keeps her from getting away and says, “Tell him. He has a right to know.”

Only now does Malia lift her eyes and when Stiles sees the pained expression on her face he decides he doesn’t want to hear.

But, yeah.

Too late.

“Go on, sister. Tell your ex-boyfriend all about the night you spent with our uncle.”

Malia flicks her eyes to Theo’s face and, looking repulsed now, shakes him off.

“You’re not my brother,” she grits out, her voice a little broken and then she’s storming off like she’s really angry now.

Or crying.

It would make a lot of sense to Stiles.

Because that’s exactly what he feels like doing right now.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Scott is saying now and he doesn’t even sound hateful, only surprised, really.

Probably at how after everything he’s done, Theo can still come up with innovative ways to hurt Stiles.

Theo puts his smug smile back on now, finally, like he had it stored away only temporarily. Then he picks up his fork and starts eating as if he didn’t have a care in the world while Stiles is staring down at the bowl of cold soup in front of him, his eyes really moist, and Scott is staring at Theo like he wants to drag him over the table and rip his head off and Mason and Liam look at each other, then flick their eyes down to their respective plates in silence.

Only Lydia who is sitting next to Mason does not seem infected with the contagious gloom that has settled on the table.

But she’s not eating either, she’s – she’s being really weird, to tell you the truth, and it speaks to how troubled everyone else is that no is really paying attention to it.

But we’re here to see it so, let’s zoom in for a little bit.

She’s staring straight ahead and it’s her banshee look, the one she gets when she has one of these intrusive thoughts about someone close to her about to die, empty eyes, hand with her spoon hovering in mid-air, whole body rigid and all her senses focused on that powerful sensation within her.

Only, it’s all wrong.

Because rather than the usual expression of shellshock on her face that quickly turns into horror, the corners of her lips are pulled up, her whole mouth locked in an eerie grin and her eyes, too.

Look at her eyes.

They’re white, yeah, still.

Still.

But something in her face is moving, transforming.

And that white around her pupils is already patterned with thin red lines that are stretching beyond the eyeballs and bleeding into the pale skin above her cheekbones like they’re alive and about to make their way all over her face.

And the purpleness and swelling?

There’s hints of that around her eyes already as well.

But she doesn’t seem to notice or, if she does, she’s not the least unsettled by it because she’s staring ahead like she can see into another dimension that happens to be folded into this one, dense and compact and sitting right in front of her and with the grin only widening into what is now a very visible expression of glee, she says, “Soon.”

Blinks.

Opens her mouth and when she speaks again it’s like her voice is vibrating, like she’s holding back a scream and it’s growing more and more difficult for her with each syllable.

“Soon now. Very soon.”

 

 

Stiles is  _not_  crying during Econ.

Because that would be – that would be pathetic.

Right?

So he just sits there, listening to Finstock rambling about whatever, staring at his textbook hard and wiping away – he likes to think of it as the outward sign that he’s really fucking done.

Malia who’s sitting a few seats over keeps throwing him looks and so is Scott, but none of them can do anything and Stiles already feels humiliated enough without them trying to comfort him.

As if there’s anything anyone could say at this point.

Theo, thankfully, is sitting behind him in his usual seat but when they walked into the classroom ten minutes earlier he looked really pleased with himself.

Fucking asshole.

After another five minutes or so, Malia has taken to her phone and she’s texting furiously until Coach calls her out on it. He snatches the thing out of her hand and it says a lot about how engrossed Malia had been in whatever she’d been doing because she is legitimately surprised - or, well,  _shock_  would be the more appropriate term for the expression on her face when she watches Coach Finstock lift his arm high in the air and mutter about how no one fucking respects him anymore, his speech as always laced with expletives.

She darts up from her chair and Stiles doesn’t have to see her face to know that she’s  _this_  close to snarling, maybe even to shifting right here in the middle of the classroom because that’s how fucking  _on edge_ they’ve all been when Coach, all of a sudden, and with his hand almost in front of his face, just about to throw a look at the display, freezes.

Frowns.

He’s not looking at Malia or at her phone, but at something – someone in the first row.

He’s looking at Lydia and then he slams Malia’s phone down onto her desk and takes a few angry steps across the classroom so he’s standing right in front of her and looking even more gnomish than usual.

He screws up his face in disgust.

“Holy – hell, Martin. What on earth is going on with your face?! You look freaking _baked_. Oh, _God_ , don’t  _look_  at me, ugh -  _nurse_ , right away! Mother of Christ...”

Stiles is craning his neck to get a better look at what’s going on because now the girls sitting next to Lydia are also looking at her and, judging from the looks on their faces, obviously simultaneously repulsed and fascinated by what they’re seeing, and Scott is going, “Lydia. Lydia what’s the matter. Lydia,” under his breath.

He is about to get up, but then Lydia is already out the door, accompanied by the girl sitting next to her.

Malia who has snatched up her phone and, while Coach was still ranting, had been unceremoniously dumping everything on her desk into her backpack, straightens back up now and, nodding once to Scott, darts out of the room.

Stiles knows she will follow Lydia and make sure that everything is fine.

Whatever this is again.

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to care.

He feels like his heart is filled with shards.

 

 

Derek’s waiting in his car and he looks the way he always does, hands on the wheel and eyes fixated on the school building like the person he’s waiting for might slip by him if he as much as averted his eyes for only a second.

Leather jacket, sunglasses.

The latter especially necessary today because he’s tired. Not that he’d give a fuck about the dark bags under his eyes, but when he’s like that he has a harder time focusing. The bright light and loud colors are overwhelming.

But with the dark veil between his eyes and his environment he can cope – at least he can deal with it right now, with _this_ situation.

But his memories of the past few days?

That’s just a whole other story.

First of all - he can’t fucking _believe_ he kissed Stiles.

He keeps picturing it, the way it must have looked. He, Derek, being all stiff and awkward and creepy, catching a teenager’s mouth just when he’d been about to form a sound of surprise at the way Derek had grabbed him and pulled him in, and Derek still can’t fucking believe it.

He must have looked like an idiot.

Stiles must have thought he’s insane.

Derek couldn’t remember what his lips had felt like.

His heart had been beating too loudly and when he’d snapped out of it he’d already been in his car, had started the engine shaking his head repeatedly, wondering out loud ‘what the fuck just happened, what the hell was I thinking, God, what the...’

And he still does, honestly.

That’s – he wasn’t supposed to  _kiss_  him.

That hadn’t been the freaking plan.

Like – it had probably done the job.

But Derek hadn’t meant to, no way.

Only, when he’d been struggling with the words that just wouldn’t come out even though he knew exactly what he was supposed to say, he’d been staring at Stiles’ lips and it was like something had snapped inside of him.

He’d never been good with words and just kissing the girl without fussing around is his go to move. Always works, too.

Plus, he’d had these intrusive thoughts before. Had found himself watching Stiles’ lips move and then an image flash in his mind of himself, locking faces with him, dragging his tongue along these – fucking NO!

Derek hits the wheel.

Stop freaking thinking about that.

That boy’s lips are not for you, not like that.

End of story.

He had put his sunglasses onto the passenger seat and is rubbing his forehead, and when someone knocks on the window, Derek almost jumps.

Almost.

He doesn’t, of course, because he’d been waiting for Malia and had heard her come up to the car.

Derek rolls the window down and Malia’s face appears. She’s bending down, right hand resting on the roof of the Camaro and Derek bites back a ‘Don’t fucking touch my car’.

She looks as tired as he does.

Strained and maybe it’s him, maybe he, Derek, is the reason for that.

Because when she’d asked him whether he thought something was wrong with her, he’d never answered.

When he’d told her he didn’t want to talk – but he didn’t want to do anything else either – she hadn’t said anything.

She’d just been sitting there, on the sofa, and started to cry.

Or maybe it isn’t him because Malia says, “Stiles will be out in a minute, make sure you don’t miss him. I gotta stick with Lydia, she looks – her face keeps doing  _that_  again. You know, just like right before Theo showed his face in Beacon Hills a few weeks ago. Says she feels like screaming.”

Derek nods.

Understands.

“Good. That means the plan is working.”

Malia frowns.

“I don’t know, Derek. Didn’t Phanuel say banshees are harbingers of darkness?”

Derek picks up his sunglasses and puts them back on.

He smirks and says, “Yeah, and it will be very dark around the bastard very soon. Sounds accurate to me.”

“I don’t know...”

Malia straightens back up and lets her gaze wander for a few moments. Then her head appears over the passenger seat again.

“Ok, there he is. Don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t,” Derek says and he fucking hopes it’s the truth.

“Good. I’ll make sure Lydia gets home safe. See ya.”

Derek just nods, rolls the window back up.

A moment later he is out of his car, glimpsing Malia’s retreating figure out of the corner of his eyes. And there he is, Stiles, a little way off from the big double doors out of which students come pouring, spilling out into the late afternoon sun. Stiles is talking with Scott and Danny, looking thin and pale. The way he’s been for a long time now and acknowledging it makes something in Derek’s chest ache.

It’s fucking wrong is what it is.

That kid who Derek got to know as saucy and constantly talking, usually all eyes and smiles, and look at him now, gloomy, silent. Depressed.

Like Beacon Hills is slowly fucking destroying him.

A miracle, really, that he’s still sane enough to go to school.

Derek’s taking big, swift steps in their direction and he can tell from the way Scott’s back straightens a little that he picked up his scent already, or maybe the distinct sound of his boots on the asphalt.

Derek slows down a bit and sniffs the air, but Theo doesn’t seem to be out here.

Perfect.

The moment Derek joins the small group and Scott says ‘Hey, man’ and Danny’s lips pull into a smile, Stiles’ eyes meet his and holy God.

He’d been crying.

Derek had thought Malia had been full of shit when she’d messaged him. You know, exaggerating to make absolutely sure Derek would be there in time as soon as school’s out.

Stiles’ eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot – because of him?

Derek’s genuinely at a loss for words for a moment and that’s all it takes for Stiles to straighten his back and turn to walk away.

Derek of course quickly reaches for his hand – more instinctively than consciously – and he can see Scott shake his head and mouth ‘ _No!_ ’ Within a split second Derek has dropped Stiles’ hand again, but Stiles is already opening his mouth to attack him and the anger in his face, it’s even worse than when he’d accused Derek of not caring about his pack.

Even worse because this is purely personal.

Stiles doesn’t seem to care even a little bit about hiding it.

His cat eyes have settled on Derek’s face and Derek shrinks from the look in them. Anger, hurt.

Heartbreak.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” Stiles spits out and then he turns away and is about to march off, and he really would have, had Derek not held him back.

More forcefully this time, because he’s starting to get angry himself now, Derek.

“No, I need to talk to you before the pack meeting.  _Now_.”

Derek knows it came out with a snarl because Stiles looks shocked for a second, scared, his amber eyes wide open so Derek can see the redness in them clearly.

His wrist is still in Derek’s hand, but he stopped struggling against it.

God, this is so fucking wrong.

Scaring the shit out of a teenager who’s as deeply traumatized as Stiles. Who’s already getting abused on a daily basis.

But Derek has to do it.

It has to be like this.

Apparently, Scott disagrees because he has his hand buried in his palm and is muttering ‘ _can’t fucking believe this, what are you doing man_ ’ and the guy Derek knows as Danny is watching everything with raised eyebrows, like he’s not sure whether he should be entertained or worried.

Derek lets go of Stiles wrist only to have him by the upper arm within an instant, ready to manhandle him over to the Camaro and dump him in the backseat – or in the trunk if he has to.

Just – Stiles has to listen, okay?

They can’t afford more misunderstandings.

There’s no time for that.

They’re running out of time.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”

It’s Theo’s voice, but Derek has never heard it sound like this, probably because, yeah, come to think of it, Derek has never heard Theo yell before.

That son-of-a-bitch is smugness incarnate, he simply doesn’t _need_ to raise his voice.

He’s walking over to them with swift steps and he looks extremely pissed.

People are turning around, of course, whispering, wondering who or what made Theo Raeken angry.

Just seeing the filthy little rat makes Derek’s stomach turn. He hates Theo with every fiber of his being and, oh, the things he’d do to him if he only could. But he’ll get his revenge, is going to smell his blood again, and not just on Stiles’ clothes or on the tiles of a bathroom floor. He’s going to fucking take him apart.

And before, he’s going to make him pay.

Soon.

Very soon.

“What the fuck, let go of him.”

Theo’s in front of him now and Derek can feel his fingers being pried from Stiles’ upper arm as if by invisible force.

“Er... don’t you – have to be anywhere, Danny?” Derek can hear Scott saying to which Danny responds, “Nope. No way in hell, Scott, I’m not gonna miss this.” Danny seems mesmerized by the way Derek is being thrown off of Stiles now as if by magic and it must look strange, ridiculous, even, with Theo a few inches shorter than Derek and, compared to him, looking as dangerous as a poodle does compared to an actual wolf.

Purely based on looks, that is, yes, only judging from outward appearances, from Theo’s blond hair and sweet face.

But look him in the face more closely for a few seconds, Theo, and you’ll know he’s deadly, a true predator, more than Derek could ever be.

Because there’s no kindness behind these blue eyes.

Only the will to power.

“Theo, people are watching,” Scott says, but Theo seems like he couldn’t care less. He has locked eyes with Derek and he’s so angry, he’s panting. Derek knows he should be scared, yes, he knows what Theo is, but – for whatever reason, to him, this whole situation is fucking hilarious.

Derek feels the urge to throw his head back and cackle maniacally, but he can feel Stiles tremble next to him, hear his heart beat fast – faster. Waves of anxiety and stress are rolling off of the kid and the sudden surge of glee Derek had been feeling, it fades away again immediately.

“We have a pack meeting,” he says to Theo.

“I don’t fucking care. You touch my boyfriend again and I end you.”

Not that Theo can push his buttons so easily, but it’s that term coming from that little rat’s mouth – and meaning  _Stiles_  with it, too – that makes Derek livid.

Makes him so angry all of a sudden, in fact, that it takes all he has to not flash his eyes at Theo, to not bare his fangs and hurl himself at the bastard right in front of Beacon Hills High.

To not ask Fernuhal for his omicron powers back.

But he knows it wouldn’t be wise, he knows that’s not the plan and he doesn’t need Scott patting his shoulder lightly and mutter, “Easy, dude... not here.”

Yeah, people are staring.

So fucking what?

Let them look all they want.

They’re only gonna see what they want to see anyway.

Two dudes fighting over that lanky senior, Stiles Stilinski, and there’s already a reel of gossip in the background, a soft murmur that Derek can pick up due to his supernatural hearing.

_Did he say – did you hear that – yeah, Theo called him boyfriend – so they’re really dating, oh my God..._

“I’ll take him to your stupid meeting. And pick him up again, after,” Theo says coldly. Stiles behind him doesn’t say anything.

He’s staring down at his shoes.

“And don’t you dare,” Theo’s now saying in a low voice and he steps into Derek’s personal space for the threat to really hit home, to make absolutely clear that this is meant for Derek alone, “don’t you dare fucking scent mark him again. If I sniff your stink on him ever again, I’m gonna find a way to make you pay for it.”

Derek snorts condescendingly.

That little shit can hiss and spit threats at him all he wants. Derek’s not gonna buy it.

“Yes, Derek. I’ll find a way. And you know what would be a good idea? To make  _him_  pay for it.”

Derek is not impressed.

He knew Theo was going to say that.

But still, when Theo turns around and puts his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and Stiles is not even trying to shove it away, Derek thinks that they already waited too long.

And while this is a sufficiently rational thought, his heart is beating angrily.

He turns around because he  _has_  to, briskly walks away without a word of goodbye.

Okay, well – that probably means he screwed up.

Fine, alright.

Maybe he did.

But he’ll get another chance to talk to Stiles.

Another chance while right now, there’s really nothing he can do here. He can only fuck it up even more thoroughly.

And Derek has learnt his lesson.

He knows when to walk away, finally.

So he does.

What does give him a grim kind of satisfaction though is knowing that while Theo, admittedly, sort of pushes his buttons, Derek pushes Theo’s buttons right back and the fucking devil – Devil – might despise Derek even more than vice versa. It’s obvious.

It’s obvious because Theo is still standing there in the midst of the crowd in front of Beacon Hills High, his arm around Stiles, and watching Derek get into his car, like Derek is the single biggest threat to the fucked-up thing Theo’s got going on with Stiles here.

When he catches Derek looking over to them, Theo pulls Stiles closer.

“You better fucking enjoy it while it lasts, motherfucker,” Derek grits out and slams the door shut.

 

 

 ***

 

“Okay, just explain this to me for a second. What on earth makes you think that Farnoêlle would be able to ban Th- Lucifer with a simple spell?”

Stiles is rubbing his temple and staring down at his hands.

This must be the most awkward pack meeting they ever had. Even the ones after Allison’s death - they’d been horrible, yes and just – sad.

Everyone had been so broken.

So they never really talked about it, but there’d still been this silent, mutual understanding between them. They knew each other’s pain. It had been their own.

This though.

Stiles is broken and everyone else is – just being awkward and weird about it to different degrees.

Derek is leaning in the doorframe to the hallway, preferring gloomy silence to taking a seat at his own table. Malia looks like she’s on the verge of tears and hasn’t spoken a single word since they got here. Kira flicks her eyes to every one of them individually and lets her gaze linger for a few seconds as if pleading the person to just say something, _anything_ , or put on a more cheerful demeanor. But speak she doesn’t either. Liam and Mason are obviously too scared to pipe up, like they know this is really not about them and Scott, even though he’s the only one inclined to talk, seems down, sad.

Lost in thought.

“Well, I told you before... it’s not the best plan – I don’t like it because we know so little of how it’s supposed to work. But it’s the only shot we got.”

“Mh, okay,” Stiles says and cranes his neck. Stretches his back. He feels like he’s been sitting in this stupid fucking chair for hours.

How come that Derek’s furniture looks so expensive and yet, is so utterly uncomfortable?

Except, maybe, the sofa.

The sofa’s okay.

“But... from everything you told me, it’s not like any of you guys matter for the whole undertaking anyway, right? Like – Fanial’s bound to do it, whether we like it or not.”

Scott nods his head, just once.

“Exactly. And that’s what I don’t like about this whole thing. What if – I just don’t trust this. What if something goes wrong? Maybe we should try and get him – er, I mean,  _her_ , to postpone it, just for a while until we come up with something better, or-”

“No,” a harsh voice barks from the corner and they all turn to look at its source.

Derek has pushed himself away from the wall and is walking up to the table, a determined look on his face.

Stiles averts his eyes.

Looking at Derek lately just makes him want to cry.

“No, we can’t fucking afford to lose any more time. That bastard’s already done enough.”

“I agree,” Malia says, quietly and darkly.

She’s not lifting her eyes up either but she looks like she might fight you if you argued with her.

“But what’s the point,” Stiles suddenly finds himself saying, “what’s the bloody freakin’ point when it’s not a good plan and she screws up? Mh? What if, like – the spell doesn’t work, mh? Theo’s always a step ahead, remember? Theo knew Faniel was planning something and he-”

“Don’t fucking say his name,” Derek grits out.

“What, has he put a Taboo curse on his name now? Like, he’s gonna pop up in front of us if we say it too often?”

Stiles has no idea why he’s being so obnoxious.

He just – this whole thing tires him out.

Plus, no one bothered to tell him what the plan was last time, or what it is this time.

Is it the same, has it changed?

Is his guardian angel going to turn Theo into a ferret and then feed him to a rhinoceros?

No one knows.

The only thing Stiles knows is that Theo has his fancy sports parked down in front of the apartment building, right next to Derek’s Camaro, and he’s listening to music and staring at the entrance door, waiting for Stiles to emerge.

So yeah, if they’re taking too long, Theo might actually barge in and drag Stiles down with him and, as a punishment, take him right there in the car, for everyone to see.

It’s what he whispered into Stiles’ ear anyway before sending him off, when he leaned over, brushed the shell of Stiles’ ear with his lips while Scott was standing there, watching, clutching his motorcycle helmet, hands trembling, like he was really tempted to smash Theo’s windscreen with it.

“Listen, maybe we just need to trust him – her, for once. She’s your guardian angel, after all, right?”

Scott is giving him a crooked smile that Stiles doesn’t return.

After all this time with Theo he’s not even sure what any kind of religion has to do with it all. From everything Theo explained to him – about balance, about the essence of the universe – it’s making less and less sense to him.

Not religion per se, or the concept of a God (and that was so wild when Theo explained it, Stiles isn’t sure he understood any of it).

But the idea of good and bad guys.

If you can’t see the good they’re doing – who tells you they really are?

Who tells you that there even is such a thing, this clearly defined imaginary border, good guys on the right, bad guys on the left?

“We told you all we know, buddy, I’m sorry... I thought – I thought you’d be at least a little relieved,” Scott says and, it’s funny, every time someone speaks it’s like they’re disrupting the thick and heavy silence that settled on the loft the moment they entered.

“All we know is that the plan involves Derek because he used to carry the omicron powers and, even though Farniel took them back, they’re still  _his_. Or that’s how she explained it to us anyway. When the time is right, Phanoel will give Derek the combined powers of all the omicrons and – and Derek will be able to off him. I hope.”

Stiles frowns.

Even though he hasn’t been feeling up to it lately, his brain is still ringing alert at Scott words and telling him that this is in no way logical.

“Okay, maybe I don’t get how angelic powers work, but – this sounds stupid to me. Why would it work  _now_ , when it always failed in the past? Clearly, Lucifer is more powerful than a random angel. Why would giving all his powers to Derek even change anything? Mh? Just explain that to me.”

He’s leaning back in his chair as he says this, not even caring about the slight, even though the angel is probably listening in.

It’s not like he ever did a good job at protecting Stiles anyway.

Scaring him shitless, yeah.

But shielding him from evil?

Please.

Dude is a fucking failure.

“Farniel is weaker than Lucifer, that’s true,” Derek says very slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Stiles lifts his head, but Derek is talking to the table top.

“That’s why he needed omicrons. By making pacts with creatures of this world, he nurtured his powers. Grew them in many different bodies.”

Stiles can’t help but grimace.

That sounds – weird.

And a little disgusting.

“And by taking them back in, they became – more. Bigger. Stronger. And Lucifer knows about this, of course. What he won’t see coming is  _how_  we’re going to get him.”

“And how exactly will that be?”

Stiles knows he’s sounding snippy. He really wants to know. It’s just – this sounds so fucking dumb he can’t even believe he’s still listening.

He’s made peace with the idea that Lucifer is invincible long ago and that’s that.

“That’s where _you_ enter the stage, Stiles,” Derek says and they’re looking at each other for the first time. So many unsaid things between them.

“We’re going to use his affection for you.”

Okay, that did it.

Stiles throws his head back and laughs.

It’s a loud laugh, too, but entirely joyless.

No one says anything.

Derek waits patiently for Stiles to calm down.

“Yeah-heah, right, dude. Okay. I’m not even gonna tell you you’re delusional. Just keep on living in your little dream world, in that fun house my beloved guardian angel has apparently set up around you.”

“You don’t see clearly, Stiles.”

“Oh, I see clearly - I can see how this is going to go down perfectly,” Stiles says, “believe me. It’s gonna be a colossal fucking failure. Because Lucifer? I fucking  _know_  the dude. I know him really well.”

Awkward silence settles on the room yet again.

Stiles looks Derek in the eyes, lifts his eyebrows, as if challenging him to contradict him.

To tell him that no, Stiles, you don’t know your rapist, your abuser.

“I fucking look into that abyss every single day, okay? It’s pointless. Theo doesn’t  _feel_. He just – wants.”

And with that Stiles gets up from his chair.

It’s only when the others start moving that he is reminded of their presence.

“Mh, okay, er... so we didn’t really come to a conclusion,” Kira says and Scott puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

Stiles looks away, when Scott kisses her on the cheek.

Scott speaks a few closing words, tells everyone to be vigilant, that they might have to react quickly and to never put their cellphones on mute. Everyone nods and mutters their agreement.

Stiles throws a glance at his phone.

It’s 5:15.

They didn’t take as long as he’d told Theo.

“Stiles, a word?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek.

“Please.”

The man looks so utterly defeated and Malia so sad, the way she’s still sitting in her chair over there even though every one’s moving about and talking with each other now in hushed voices that Stiles ends up saying, “Ugh. Fine. But hurry. He – he’s waiting for me.” Averting his eyes when he says this.

Derek nods.

Stiles follows him into the bedroom, a room he’s never seen before. There’s a king size bed, a desk with a laptop and a stack of loose sheets on it, two book shelves and a purple sofa.

Stiles thinks how ridiculous it is that such a fancy ass place wouldn’t have more than one bedroom, or at least a study to take guests to in case you want to talk to them in private.

But maybe there is.

Who knows.

“I didn’t sleep with Malia,” Derek blurts out and Stiles stares at him.

“What?”

“That’s – Malia messaged me, she said Theo dropped some hints and – it’s true, we did – we did sort of make out,” Derek averts his eyes, runs his hand through his hair in a very Derek move.

“It was wrong. Completely. We just got out of – of there. You know, that night, after... I thought I’d go insane, I swear. Just – hearing –  _listening_.... I can’t even...”

He stops, takes a deep breath.

“It was like – we both needed to feel something else, just – I was the one who initiated it. But I was also the one who pulled back.”

At this he lifts his eyes and they land on Stiles’ face.

“I couldn’t – I couldn’t do it. Not just because – of how fucked up it would have been. I couldn’t do it – when I really wanted...”

But he never finishes the sentence.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s enough.

Stiles rubs his cheek, at a loss for words.

“We’re sorry, Stiles. Malia and I both are and we feel guilty as hell about what happened and – about what  _almost_  happened. But... what Theo smelled was – that. You can ask him. He knows nothing else happened. He’d have smelled it on her, but he’s just a lying, raping scumbag. He – hey, Stiles.”

Because tears are trickling down his cheeks and he doesn’t even know why anymore.

Not because he’s happy.

He’s still heartbroken.

So confused, too.

It’s just a fucking mess, he’s a fucking mess, and it’ll never end.

Stiles doesn’t care what Scott says.

He knows it will never fucking end.

Derek wraps his arms around him and pulls him into a tight hug, then places his hand in Stiles’ neck and, regardless of what Stiles heard Theo tell Derek earlier today, Derek starts scent marking him. He’s rubbing his scent into Stiles’ neck slowly but with determination, dragging his index and middle fingers in slows circles across his skin.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry. So sorry....”

Stiles closes his eyes.

Derek’s whispered apologies blend in with the murmur of voices from the sitting room until it’s all one gentle and incomprehensible blur, just noise.

A spacious silence to partake in, disappear behind.

 

 

 

 

When Stiles gets into the car, Theo doesn’t say a word, he just looks at him.

Stiles shoves his backpack into the footwell – he’d brought a few books and his laptop with him, just in case – and puts the seatbelt on.

“Okay,  _what_?”

He pushes his head into the headrest. Then turns it to meet Theo’s eyes.

Stiles is surprised to find that Theo is not, in fact, mocking him.

He’s frowning and considering Stiles’ face as if trying to figure something out.

“You’ve been crying.”

Stiles snorts.

“Just start the damn car.”

Theo lets his gaze linger on Stiles’ face a few moments longer but Stiles is staring ahead, at Mason who just exited the building and is waving awkwardly at Stiles. Then quickly drops his hand as if it just occurred to him that Theo might think Mason means _him_.

They’re all scared of Theo.

Even Scott.

Even Derek.

Stiles knows it’s true.

Then Theo finally starts up the engine and backs out of the parking spot.

“He scent-marked you,” he states matter-of-factly, looks left and right – in a slightly better mood Stiles would roll his eyes at Theo getting a kick out of doing something so utterly human – and pulls out onto the street.

Stiles just shrugs. Stares down at his dark blue backpack. He got it for Christmas last year. With all the monsters hitting Beacon Hills, Stiles had started taking his laptop over to Scott’s house for every pack meeting and his dad had been worried he might end up breaking it. Stiles had explained to him again and again that laptops were meant to be taken along, but then again, his dad had had a point, what with Stiles just dumping it onto the back seat of his Jeep and all.

“You let him scent-mark you,” Theo rephrases, but Stiles only shrugs.

“You got his stink all over you,” grimacing, “I told him – I told him I wouldn’t allow it,” Theo grits out.

“I fucking told him I’d make you pay.”

A third shrug.

“I know. I heard it.”

“Don’t just fucking sit there and talk back to me like a little shit!”

Stiles narrows his eyes. Finally turns his head slowly and drags his eyes over to the driver’s seat, to Theo’s face who staring ahead into the darkness, through a spotless windshield, and looks utterly displeased.

Angry, even, judging from the way his fingers are gripping the wheel.

Like he can just barely keep himself from turning the car around, speeding back to the loft and knocking Derek’s teeth out. Not that he could, with the pact and all. But, the wish is there, clearly.

“What do you even care,” Stiles says and he watches Theo’s face and, really, there it is. Stiles’ eyes widen a little in surprise as he catches Theo throwing him a side-glance, like Stiles hit a sore spot. Like there’s something there, about Derek, that he’d rather hide from him.

“What – are you jealous?”

Impossible.

Im-fucking-possible.

Well, okay, Theo had been jealous before, it’s not like it’s an unheard-of trait of the Devil’s character. But that was a different kind of jealousy. Like the way a kid would want the toys all the other kids are playing with, just to make sure they’re not better than his.

But this now, it’s almost as if –

“Do you have a crush on Derek?”

The words just drop out of Stiles’ mouth before he can stop himself and Theo – his face, sort of, un-clenches. It’s interesting to see, how he goes from majorly pissed to dumbfounded within a second.

“What?”

And he lets out an incredulous laugh.

“Wha– did you just fucking say that?”

Takes his eyes off the road and turns his head to stare at Stiles for far longer than it would be possible for any actual human driver without wrapping his sports around the next tree.

“Did you just – Stiles, are you losing your mind?”

Stiles wrinkles his eyebrows.

“Why would that be so unlikely?” Stiles mutters, “What do I know about your sick and twisted mind?”

A smile settles on Theo’s face and Stiles averts his gaze again.

“I’d say you know more than anyone and anything else. Here  _and_  beyond.”

“Okay, then why would you even care? You don’t care about, I don’t know... my dad giving me a hug.”

Theo takes a deep, audible breath – and it sounds a lot like a sigh, like someone feeling so much that he just doesn’t know how to put words to it, but then, the thought is ridiculous. It’s like Stiles said. Theo doesn’t _feel_.

He just wants.

And him wanting Derek is actually not that far-fetched. It sounded like a wild idea at first, but the more Stiles thinks about it, the more it actually makes sense.

Not as in, Theo wants to  _fuck_  Derek.

But as in, he’s still Satan and Satan needs to torture, and he hasn’t done that in a while now, and Derek would be the perfect object. Theo has remarked on more than one occasion, too, that if he were allowed to torture anyone to death, he’d pick Derek.

Come on, anyone would, probably, in all honesty. Not to death maybe, no. But just in general. Do something to his body and watch his reaction. After all, the crazy and depraved seem to have a thing for chaining Derek up and tearing him to shreds while occasionally licking his stomach.

Kate Argent, am I right?

And Stiles – he understands just the tiniest bit.

Not the whole burning the Hale family alive, but – that you’d want to chain up the old sourwolf and do things to him – it makes sense.

It’s – hot.

Stiles lets out a soft snort.

God, there’s really no hope for him, is there.

He catches Theo throwing him glances, and frowning, like he desperately wants to know what Stiles is thinking.

But he doesn’t ask.

Doesn’t bark at him either.

He just pulls up to the Stilinski house and follows Stiles inside without exchanging a further word with him.

 

 

Stiles would rather if Theo just fucked off, but he figures he, Stiles, is the one to blame for the fact that Theo is still there after dinner. He messed up all the chances of getting rid of him himself with permitting Derek to scent-mark him. ‘I just don’t like other people’s dirty hands on what is mine,’ had been the simple, and final, explanation Theo had finally given him.

Then Stiles’ dad had called from the kitchen and invited Theo to stay for dinner.

And then Stiles had had to tell his dad that Theo would stay overnight, too, and his dad had frowned but, thankfully, not said anything. Just nodded even though he’d looked very unhappy and Stiles – his head is still a lighter shade of red, even half an hour later, God.

When it had been about Malia, Stiles usually hadn’t been able to suppress a grin and his dad had shaken his head and smiled.

This now.

It’s different.

A part of it is because Theo’s a guy, yeah, and Stiles understands. Hell, he still can’t wrap his head around it himself.

And then, the other part is because Theo is – well. Theo.

“Okay, boys, game starts in a few minutes. Let me get some snacks – Theo, soda or beer?”

Theo smiles politely and says, “A soda is fine, Sir.”

“Alright,” the sheriff says and nods. Theo passed the test. Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes at how much of a dad his father can be. Like Stiles is a teenage girl bringing her first boyfriend home to meet her parents.

“Make yourself at home, Theo. Er... Stiles, could you give me a hand?”

Stiles follows his dad to the kitchen and Theo walks over to the sofa.

His dad is already rummaging around in one of the cupboards and dumping packets of chips and sweets onto the counter.

“Uhm... I don’t think we’re gonna eat all of that, dad...”

“Can you close the door, Stiles?”

Uh-oh.

That’s never a good sign.

“Dad, you know he’s got supernatural hearing, right,” Stiles mumbles, but he still closes the door.

“Well, then I guess I’ll just hope he’s polite enough not to listen in on private conversations.”

Stiles looks down to his socks.

If his dad knew.

Oh boy.

He can  _never_  find out.

Never.

“So...er... what – what is it?”

“Stiles, look at me.”

And Stiles does.

He lifts his head and swallows.

“Are you okay with this?”

“With... what?”

Stiles swallows again.

Lately his mouth has this tendency to go really dry in the middle of conversations.

“With this,” his dad repeats, gesturing vaguely to the door behind which Theo is sitting politely on the sofa, feet on the floor and ready to jump up as soon as Stiles and his dad reappear and help them carry out the snacks and drinks.

“Dad, he’s – he’s my  _boyfriend_.”

“But why are you so uncomfortable?”

“I’m not – I mean... this is – not easy for me... okay?”

“I get that son, it’s not easy for me either, believe me. Just this morning, I went out and bought something called the Binford Super-Shears and a pair of extra protection earmuffs. And I didn’t necessarily think of the hedge clippers when I got the ear muffs.”

Stiles is staring at him, mouth agape and cheeks slowly reddening as it dawns on him.

“Oh, God...”

“And I don’t have a problem with my son exploring his sexuality, just not – in earshot, okay?”

Stiles is working his jaw, but somehow, nothing comes out that sounds even remotely like language, just an awkward sound in the middle between ‘ _God’_  and ‘ _sorry’_.

“And I could honest to God live with that, it’s just,” and he stops, considering his son for a moment, from brown and yellow striped socks to his face that’s still beet red.

“You’re not happy, Stiles.”

“Mh?”

Stiles’ head snaps up.

“You’re not happy, you’re walking around like – honestly, the last time I saw you like this was after Allison’s death. Is there some monster you’re fighting right now that I don’t know of?”

Oh, hell yeah.

But Stiles slowly shakes his head.

“Okay. Is it school? Are you being bullied?”

Another shake of the head.

“Tell me that it’s not Theo.”

“It’s not Theo.”

The sheriff rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what I-”

“No, I’m fine, dad, really,” Stiles quickly says while feeling freaking miserable on the inside and he knows it sounds pathetic and totally fake, so he adds, “Don’t you like – Theo? I mean... I thought he’s like – okay, he’s a guy, but he’s uhm... polite, straight A’s – like, the perfect guy to bring home as a date.”

“Well, yeah – if this was 1972!”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Stiles, listen. I don’t want you to feel pressured, okay? It’s not about who  _I_  like. But I keep getting these vibes from you, like – like you don’t even want to be with Theo.”

He’s fixating Stiles now, with his piercing dad look that Stiles finds very hard to resist. You’d think he’s a good liar, but he’s always had a hard time bullshitting his dad. Not because he’s the sheriff, no. But because Stiles  _cares_  about him. Deeply.

Then his dad makes it all even worse when he adds, after a short pause, “Almost, like – yeah, like you’re  _scared_  of him.”

Oh, fuck.

He’s gonna cry.

Stiles is gonna stand there in the kitchen in front of his dad like a ten-year-old, hands buried in the pockets of his saggy jeans, head bent forward, and start crying.

And he’s so miserable and lonely and humiliated that the only thing he can think of is to, somehow, get out of this situation because he knows from experience that once you let go, once you let someone in just the tiniest bit, it’s like tugging away one piece from a house of cards. Before you know it, everything will come tumbling down and you’ll never know how to fix it either.

So, rather than think about what to say, being the cool and calculating motherfucker he wishes he were, Stiles opens his mouth – and blurts out the truth.

“It’s because I didn’t – at first.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh to cover up the sob that had been making its way to the surface. Still staring down at his socks.

“What?” his dad goes after a few seconds as if he thought the sentence over once, then a second time, and it’s still not making sense.

“I – I...”

Okay, Stiles thinks. Here it goes.

“I was – I had a crush on Derek. Okay?”

“Derek  _Hale_?” his dad says like there could be a confusion as to the Derek they’re talking about. Like there’s just so many Dereks running around in Beacon Hills.

Just making absolutely a hundred percent sure that there isn’t a girl at Stiles’ school who’s called Derek. Like – you never know with names these days, right?

“Yes, dad, Derek _Hale_ ,” Stiles says with a deep sigh and he’s finally brave enough to lift his head, only to find his dad looking at him with the most incredulous expression on his face Stiles has ever seen. His look when Stiles told him he was dating Theo was nothing against this.

“Don’t act so shocked,” Stiles mutters. “I – had a stupid crush on Derek and he – like, he’s just not into guys. And Theo – was really nice to me, and... that’s what you’ve been seeing, I think...”

Not completely the truth.

But not really a lie either.

“He’s, like... a sweet guy,” and if Theo could listen to Stiles’ heart beat right now – which he probably is anyway – he’d immediately detect the lie, but his dad is still too befuddled to notice.

“You – what? You’re in love with Derek Hale?”

“ _Crush_. It was a silly crush,” Stiles corrects, his cheeks crimson.

“A silly, stupid fucking crush,” he adds under his breath and his dad doesn’t even go,  _Language, Stiles!_

He’s still blinking wildly, like moving his eyelids up and down helps him making sense of this.

“So – so this,” and he gestures towards the door, towards the sofa and TV and, especially, towards  _Theo_ , “is your rebound relationship?”

Dumbfounded, completely.

“You’re saying you went out and said yes to Theo because Derek said no?”

He sounds a lot like a man who just learned about his son’s secret life as a hooker.

“It wasn’t like that. Okay, at first, yes – but I started liking him, okay? He’s – a handsome and sweet guy.”

Oh, boy.

“Oh, boy,” the sheriff goes and slaps his hand over his eyes. Rubs them like this conversation is draining the life out of him.

“I’m happy, dad.”

“Well, I don’t see any of it.”

“You will,” Stiles immediately says and this is the full truth again. Then Stiles reaches over to the counter, picks up two packets of chips and a handful of Snickers bars and quickly walks out of the kitchen.

His dad will see him happy.

Not because Stiles will be - that option went out the window the moment Lucifer put one of his hooves down on the surface of this planet, like millions of years ago.

But because Stiles will learn.

And when he walks into the sitting room, Theo is looking directly at him, no smile on his face, Stiles is thinking,  _Try harder._

_Try fucking harder, Stiles!_

 

 

 

They’re all lounging on the sofa, the TV is on but Stiles can’t enjoy the game, he can’t even relax because here’s the thing.

Theo is pissed.

Majorly so.

And it’s probably about the conversation he had with his dad in the kitchen.

Stiles knows Theo heard the whole thing and being supernatural and, on top of that, Satan Himself, he knows that Stiles lied when he said Theo was sweet and good to him.

He also knows Stiles told the truth when he said he’d had a crush on Derek and even his dad could apparently tell that Stiles had really meant that he’s in love, as in, _way more_ than a crush and _happening right now_.

And Theo will let him pay for it.

Stiles can tell from the way he hasn’t shifted around on the sofa since the game started. He knows that Theo is so focused on reigning in his anger that he has no brain space left for playing at being human. And for Lucifer, Lord of the Firelands, King of all the Demons, probably the most powerful creature presently walking the Earth, that says a lot indeed.

And Stiles is – oh yeah, he’s scared.

Not as scared as when Theo could still physically hurt him but still. Experience has shown that he’d always find ways to be cruel.

Needless to say, Stiles regretted what he said from the moment he sat down next to Theo and felt him perfectly immobile next to him, body all rigid. Like he’s been dead twelve hours.

It freaks him out.

But then his dad, on Stiles’ left, seems a little relieved. Lost in thought, too, yes, but he doesn’t sound wary or displeased when he says, “Do you care for Skittles, Theo?”

Stiles knows that his dad is gonna give him a talk about how wrong it is to date someone just to avoid being on your own, but for now, he seems to have made peace with the idea of Theo Raeken on his sofa, next to his son, and, yes, taking his son’s hand now, too.

Because on being addressed Theo moves for the first time in thirty minutes, like someone switched him on again. He leans forward and grabs a handful of sweets out of the bowl the sheriff is holding out to him.

Politely says, “Thank you, Sir,” and when he leans back again, dropping a couple of blue and red ones into his mouth with his right hand, he slides his left up from where it had been resting on the sofa.

Lets it settle on Stiles’ hand.

Maybe the sheriff sees it, maybe he doesn’t.

But Stiles knows it has begun – the game.

Not the one on TV.

The real one, out here, with Stiles and Theo as the only players.

And this is how it starts.

 

 

 

 

Stiles is staring at the TV screen, but he’s not seeing anything.

All his senses are focusing on the back of his right hand against which Theo’s flesh is soft and warm.

Then Theo moves and Stiles resists the urge to close his eyes. His heart is almost beating out of his chest but he stays put on the sofa, copying his dad’s ‘yes!’s and ‘no!!’s, pretending that he’s just as immersed in the game as the sheriff is.

Cover it up.

Walk right through it all.

Pretend like Theo doesn’t mean  _you_  when he leans in and whispers, barely audible for you even though his voice is right next to your ear, “Show him how happy I make you. Stiles...”

Stiles almost jumps when he feels something wet and hot and only realizes after a second that Theo just licked his ear.

The fucking maniac.

Stiles turns his head, only a little, as if his dad would get suspicious, were his son to face his boyfriend during what must be the most frustrating game he’s seen all season.

But the sheriff is too upset about what’s happening on TV right now to hear his son say in a low voice, “I had to tell him _something_.”

Theo lets out a soft laugh, like  _Ha!_  and looks down at his own hand still resting lightly on top of Stiles’.

“And you chose to go with the truth.”

“So fucking what,” Stiles whisper-hisses while his dad goes, “Ryan, nooooooo! Come  _on_ , you guys!!”

“What do you even fucking care? You want to see me suffer, Theo,” and the anger, thank God, it’s making room for itself in his chest, like it always does, pushing fear and sadness to the margins of his consciousness.

“What’s the difference between putting a lighter to my skin and shattering my fucking heart? Thought you enjoy both, since you always seemed to like seeing me in pain.”

Theo’s lips are right at Stiles’ ear again and Stiles shudders from feeling the hot breath burn over that spot that is still wet from Theo licking it.

“I’d like to put a lighter to your skin right now, Stiles.”

Theo’s hair brushes over his skin, tickling him, as Theo drops his head down to Stiles’ neck. Puts his lips down. Kisses him, once, and Stiles closes his eyes.

For a couple of reasons.

“I’d put the flame right here,” and he tilts his head and breathes a kiss onto Stiles skin about an inch below his ear and causing goosebumps to spread over his body.

“And I’d let it linger and cleanse you of that feeling in your heart...”

Another gentle kiss.

“... until all you feel is white-hot pain.”

This time he sucks at Stiles’ skin right in the crook of his neck and Stiles can’t hold back a gasp. Luckily, the TV is too loud for his dad to hear.

“It’s good pain, Stiles,” Theo is saying now and he reaches around Stiles’ shoulder with his right hand, then lets it rest on his upper arm. Pulls his head back to look Stiles in his big, wide-open eyes.

“It’s oblivion. A different sense of time. Anything alive is never more in the Now than when they’re in pain.”

Lips pulling apart, widening into a smile.

“The color of your eyes...”

And he lifts both his hands, shifts on the sofa so he can cup them around Stiles’ cheeks.

They look at each other for a second, Theo smiling, doting almost, and Stiles staring back at him, wide-eyed.

It’s then, in this moment, that an idea hits him.

Something Stiles has never seriously considered before.

It suddenly occurs to him that Theo is looking at him like Stiles – like Stiles is making him _happy_. Yeah, even though it’s not his sex-brain talking, Theo is still looking at him like Stiles is the greatest thing he ever saw. And Theo has seen freaking pterodactyls swoop majestically across prehistoric Earth.

For the first time ever, Stiles suddenly imagines seeing something like affection in Theo’s gaze. Genuine affection, that is.

As in, he might be capable of love, after all.

But then again, it’s really hard to tell, what with Theo’s next sentence being, “The urge to make you writhe and scream is growing stronger, Stiles. Be a good boy and make me forget – then maybe,” and he lowers his voice even more, so Stiles can barely catch it when he says, “maybe I won’t think of something to make you regret your  _betrayal_.”

“Betr-,“ is all Stiles manages to get out, one and a half outraged syllables, before Theo covers his mouth with his lips.

But then, because Stiles doesn’t do anything – which makes it sort of hard to passionately kiss, really – Theo pulls back after a few seconds.

“Stiles?”

“You alright, boys?”

The sheriff’s voice makes Stiles turn around so fast he’s certain he heard something in his spine crack.

“Uhm. Actually, I – dad – can you pass the nachos?”

Smooth.

“No, thanks,” Theo says, politely as always when Stiles offers him the bowl, but his grin is dirty.

And as expected, as soon as Stiles puts the bowl down on the coffee table and the sheriff’s gaze is glued to the screen again, Theo’s hands are on Stiles’ shoulders once more, pulling him in.

“Do I make you happy, Stiles?”

Fucking no.

But Stiles isn’t gonna answer that.

So he sits there, stiff like a teddy bear with too much stuffing, while Theo has his face buried in his neck again, trying to ignore the shivers Theo’s lips are sending down his spine.

“So you’re saying I don’t? I don’t make you happy?”

Nope.

But still, don’t answer that.

It’s a trap.

“Okay then... maybe we should make daddy Stilinski watch. Just so you’ll enjoy being alone with me in the future.”

It’s the faintest of whispers against Stiles’ neck, next to Theo’s fingers that are massaging his skin with slow, lazy circles. Taking the last bit of Derek’s scent off.

“You – wouldn’t do that.”

Not a whisper.

Stiles is too shocked to keep his voice down.

That Theo could do to his father what he’d done to Derek hasn’t even occurred to him.

Until now.

But he wouldn’t.

That would be against the rules, yes?

And Theo  _loves_  the rules.

Hell, he  _made_  the rules.

“You – you  _wouldn’t_.”

Desperate, yes, and Stiles isn’t even ashamed of it.

Next to him his dad is following the game and seems oblivious to what his son is doing, probably because Theo and Stiles are leaning back and his dad is literally on the edge of his seat.

Stiles, for his part, doesn’t even know whether they’re watching football or baseball.

“You – wouldn’t hurt-”

“I wouldn’t,” Theo says and it sounds final and Stiles closes his eyes, as relief washes over him.

Holy Mother in Heaven.

Theo can scare the shit out of him like nobody’s business without even lifting a finger.

“...as long as _you_ keep playing _I’m_ interested in keeping everyone sane.”

Theo probably said  _safe_ , but that’s what Stiles heard anyway.

And he knows what he has to do.

Feeling utterly defeated once again, he opens his mouth, lets his jaw drop only a little bit to signal that it’s okay, yeah, go for it.

When nothing happens and Theo is just sitting there, leaning back comfortably, Stiles frowns.

Meets Theo’s amused smile with a gloomy gaze.

Of course he knows what the son-of-a-bitch wants.

And, fine, it’s not like Stiles has a choice here.

Besides, they’ve done worse.

A lot worse.

So he leans in, finally, and brushes his lips over Theo’s. Then scoots over, so his right thigh is pressing against Theo’s left. Then thinks ‘Aw, hell, fuck it’ and takes Theo’s right hand.

And goes for it.

When you close your eyes and picture someone you actually want to be kissing, it’s not even that bad. And again, Stiles has to admit that Theo knows what he’s doing.

For what it’s worth, he’s a good kisser.

Makes it easier for Stiles to forget, yes?

Theo’s left hand is cupping Stiles’ neck and he’s running his thumb along the curve of his neck again and again and, all in all, it’s – it’s okay.

Not enough for Stiles to completely tune out who Theo is and what he’s done to him but, you know.

As close as it gets.

And Stiles, he’s sort of immersed.

So absorbed in fact that he doesn’t really feel his dad shifting uncomfortably on the sofa next to him. Maybe it’s because there is so much room between their bodies now, what with Stiles sitting almost in Theo’s lap.

Or maybe it’s because the combined sensation of Theo’s lips and his fingers are making him dizzy. Plus, he’s sort of trying to concentrate, okay?

He’s got a job to do here.

Saving his family from the freaking Devil is a good enough excuse for not noticing his dad is staring at them until his dad clears his throat.

Twice, actually, the second time considerably louder to drown out people screaming and yelling on TV, and Stiles pulls back, startled.

It doesn’t really help that there’s a moist, disgusting smacking noise when he pulls his lower lip literally out from in-between Theo’s who had been sort of sucking on it.

Good God.

This is mortifying.

“Uhm. There’s a TV in my room, I can-”

“Sorry, Sir,” Theo says because Stiles is too embarrassed to answer. Theo’s hand is still in his neck and he’s holding Stiles close and it must be the oddest sight to his dad. Especially after what Stiles told him.

So Stiles forces his lips into the most genuine smile he can muster and says, voice a little shaky, “Sorry, dad, er.... is it okay, if we’re heading upstairs?”

This time, Stiles means it exactly the way it comes out and even though his dad gets this look on his face, Stiles thinks he did a fairly good job at pretending like he really _wants_ this.

Like he can hardly wait to get upstairs and rip Theo’s clothes off and get his hands all over his body.

Which is – a good body right?

It’s not that hard to believe.

He makes a point of taking Theo’s hand and pulling him up with him from the sofa. When Theo bends down to pick up one of the bowls, the sheriff says, “Leave it,” with a dismissive gesture.

“Good night, boys,” and he sounds as defeated as Stiles is feeling when he takes Theo up to his room, Theo’s hand burning in his palm like he’s clutching hot coals.

 

 

 

Half an hour later Stiles has brushed his teeth, and changed into his sleep shirt and boxers and they’re sitting on his bed and making out like two teenagers who do it for the first time.

Somehow, it seems like he can’t get past that certain stiffness with Theo, that awkwardness, but Theo seems to enjoy it.

Even though he’s agitated, Theo, the way he always gets after a while, reaching for Stiles’ hand impatiently, then dropping it again immediately as if he’s telling himself to be patient, to take it easy.

After a minute or so Stiles pulls back.

“Can we just... lie next to each other?”

Stiles may sound a little desperate, but that’s because he really is, so – sue him.

“You can stay here but can we just not... not do anything else, please? Theo?”

Hearing his name from Stiles’ lips seems to do the trick because Theo frowns, starting to shake his head slowly. Then halts the movement and huffs out a breathless laugh.

“You’re killing me here, Stiles.”

And really – Theo’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes, somehow, moist.

It’s with a certain resignation that Stiles acknowledges he knows Theo well enough to know this look.

It’s arousal, right there in his face.

He’s turned on.

Like – majorly.

And when you drop your gaze down to his lap you’ll find proof of it too, the kind of evidence no one could overlook, really.

There’s a visible bulge in his skinny jeans that he already had to unbutton and he probably still can’t be sitting there completely pain free right now.

“Theo, come on.”

Theo laughs, loudly this time.

“Don’t say my name like that, Stiles.”

“Just leave me alone for tonight, please, Theo.”

Theo runs both hands through his hair and curses under his breath. He’s looking at the ceiling like he needs to clear his head but can’t while Stiles is looking at him.

Stiles doesn’t really understand, but it seems like hearing him say his name like this, pleadingly, like Stiles is turning to him, needing him to be a certain way for him, Stiles, is turning Theo on even more.

“Holy shit, how did I ever make this pact,” Theo suddenly says and Stiles feels like he’s missing something. Like a big chunk of the conversation has been chopped out of his memory and dumped in the trash bin next to Stiles’ desk.

“Stiles, you can’t ask me to just not touch you tonight,” and, yes, from the way Theo is looking right now, all ruined here in front of him on the bed, it seems like he’s actually considering it. Even more – like can’t _not_ do what Stiles is asking of him.

But the thing is this.

Just asking Theo to not torment him has never really been an option.

And God, has Stiles ever pleaded with him, fucking  _begged_  him to stop, begged on his hands and knees and sobbing, crying for him to stop for only a minute, give him air to breathe, please.

So – what’s different now?

Why is Theo not throwing him down onto the mattress and ripping his boxers off with is teeth, but is still sitting there, saying once again, “You realize that’s a fucking obnoxious thing to demand, right?”

“I’m asking you, Theo. Please.”

And Theo meets his eyes.

The look he’s giving Stiles is clouded, he seems a little dazed by how much he really wants to fuck him right now, but it seems like he’s searching Stiles’ face for a clue as to whether he’s serious or not.

And understanding hits Stiles in the stomach, almost sweeps him off the mattress.

The difference here, it’s not Theo.

Theo who hasn’t changed, who has always been the same in essentials, pact or no pact.

It’s  _him_ , Stiles.

He never asked Theo to spare him while believing Lucifer would _actually listen_ to Stiles. He’s never spoken to him with this amount of – of trust.

While he’s still Stiles’ freaking nemesis, he actually _trusts_ Theo to not cross a certain line right now.

But why – why is that?

And it’s with a certain fear that he’s looking at Theo now, a completely new kind of fear.

And Theo huffs out another laugh, in the middle between a snort and a moan.

“Fuck,” he says, runs his hands through his hair again, “ _Fuck_. Stiles. You can’t fucking – this stupid pact...”

Oh, yes, right, this too.

Consensual.

Stiles is beginning to see.

Clearer than he has ever before.

And he scoots over to Theo, closer to him and does something he never thought he would do – completely voluntarily, at least. He takes Theo’s face in his hands, cups them around Theo’s flushed cheeks and thereby perfectly mirrors what Theo did earlier that night and he feels, yes.

Powerful.

And it’s so elating, such a fucking rush, that Stiles leans in and kisses him.

Just to prolong the feeling of having Theo absolutely melt under his touch.

Then leans back a little to see the ruined expression on his face.

“I need you to give me some space tonight,” another kiss, “Please, Theo.”

Theo is panting.

He’s looking at Stiles with these wild eyes, like he wants to throw him down and just fuck into him, but he can’t, he’s mesmerized by Stiles’ fingertips and by the brush of his lips.

It’s the ecstasy of Stiles kissing him _because he_ _wants to_ and it makes Theo almost come apart, then and there.

And Stiles knows all about it.

His heart is beating loudly even though he feels calmer than he ever has in his life.

And it’s not an empty calmness either.

It’s a heavy silence in his chest and head, a comfortable darkness that huddles up against him, wraps around his shoulders and stomach and back, head and arms and legs, everything.

He feels safe and powerful and that’s what makes him take Theo by the hand and tug at it, gently, making him move so Stiles can flip the comforter back and they can both slip underneath, and Theo reacts.

First he scoots a little to the right and climbs down from the comforter – with a clumsiness Stiles has never seen on him before.

Then he shoves his pants down with his free hand, probably because they’re hurting him, because he can’t take the tightness anymore and Stiles suddenly finds himself nodding, yes.

Yes, go ahead.

I’ll let you do that before we sleep.

Theo’s cheeks are red and his lips look swollen like he bit them repeatedly, but it’s just the look of someone near climaxing. He reaches into his boxers and then his dick is in his hands and he’s stroking it or, rather giving it violent jerks, his eyes never leaving Stiles’ who mildly wonders how on earth they got here.

It’s so odd, how Theo is still clutching his hand like he’s holding on for dear life and Stiles is alternating between staring back at him or looking down at Theo’s penis.

The sounds he’s making, too.

Stiles can feel himself getting turned on, but he won’t act on it.

And it’s okay, too, just this dull kind of arousal that you learn to live with as a teenager.

Plus, Stiles is hurting too much for that still, both mentally and physically. But he does lean forward once more to kiss Theo on the lips who moans into his mouth and licks at him hungrily.

Then Stiles pulls back again and that’s all it took, just these ten to twenty seconds and Theo is coming and - watching it happen is the weirdest thing. Stiles has seen it before, yes, but never with a mind that’s sort of at ease. Not thinking of anything. Just acknowledging the fact that shortly before Theo’s shoulders start shaking and his chest begins heaving violently, his eyes roll back into his head and he lets out a moan, just one, soft and drawn. Then he’s looking at Stiles, a veil over his eyes, cheeks flecked with red spots and Stiles can feel the streams of come hit the fabric of his own boxers and shirt, but he doesn’t really care.

Theo’s whole body goes limp and he falls forward, panting, and Stiles catches him.

He doesn’t really know why he did it.

It was more of an impulse than anything else.

He almost immediately shifts but doesn’t drop him, no. He lowers Theo down onto the mattress, carefully almost.

Then, unsure of what just happened – not concerning Theo, but himself – Stiles moves away and grabs a Kleenex from his nightstand to gather Theo’s come with it, wipe it off as best as he can.

Theo watches Stiles get up and change into a pair of fresh boxers that’s not soaked in come, a new shirt.

No words ares being spoken while Stiles walks over, flicks off the light, then makes his way back to his bed in the dark, and lies down next to Theo.

Pulls the comforter over both their bodies.

No fussing around.

No complaints.

Not even hatred, only low-key displeasure that he has to share his small bed with another person.

Theo doesn’t put his arm around him, doesn’t even try to touch Stiles. He’s still breathing more heavily than usual, lying on his back and staring ahead into the darkness, but he isn’t bothering him, and Stiles’ last conscious thought is, again, accompanied by mild surprise, sort of a heavy, but delicious sadness,

_So, this is it?_

_This is how it’s going to be?_

It’s not what he ever really imagined for himself, and he’ll take a long time to heal.

But it’s okay.

He’ll learn to have his moments and he’ll change enough so the past won’t matter so much anymore.

 

 

 

 ***

 

When Stiles wakes up, it’s a sudden coming to consciousness, like someone slapped him.

His eyes are wide open and what he realizes immediately is this.

This is different.

Something – feels  _off._

He’s lying in his bed alright, walls around him where they should be, the dark outline of his lamp just barely visible against the even darker ceiling, and, turning his head a little, there’s his nightstand with the familiar stack of books on it, his clock with the glow-in-the-dark hands (2 a.m.) and the box of Kleenex that he used to make a point of hiding in the top drawer because nothing says ‘I jerk off’ like a box of tissues on a teenage boy’s nightstand. Until the whole Theo thing had started and Stiles sort of stopped caring.

That’s it.

_He_  isn’t there.

Theo.

Stiles reaches out, feels the mattress to his right, but it’s empty, cold.

Like no one has been lying there until recently.

His blanket is wrapped tightly around his body, too.

No additional pillow.

“Theo?”

He says into the darkness and right then, right when the sound of his own voice should hit his ears, but doesn’t, Stiles knows what’s up.

He sits up in bed fast, eyes darting around the room.

His heart is beating violently.

When he puts his naked feet on the carpet there’s no shuffle, no soft  _swoosh_.

Stiles walks over to the window, pushes the curtains out of his way, then unlatches and opens it, and it gives in to Stiles’ hands effortlessly, glides up smoothly and silently.

The street outside looks like it always does, rows of mailboxes, houses in all shades of dark against the night sky that’s so blue it’s almost black, almost.

Leaves of trees moving in the light breeze, parked cars, a cat on their neighbor’s wall, blinking her lantern eyes up to Stiles like she had been waiting for him and Stiles stumbles a few steps backwards.

The silence out there is even worse than the one in here.

It’s not completely soundless though, no.

More like the room, the house, the neighborhood, are under a giant, air-tight sarcophagus and someone has sucked all the air out of it, replaced it with something breathable but thicker, somehow, a dense but transparent filler in which sound travels only with effort, only when Stiles claps his hands in front of his face vigorously and with rising panic, he can hear a faint echo, like he’s clapping them in the distance, like his arms are half a mile long.

And Stiles knows what this is, too.

It’s the trademark soundlessness. Hers.

Phanuel.

But it has never travelled so far, never up to this room, not like this.

Makes Stiles feel like he’s being steeped in some sort of preservative that has already been sucked into his lungs, drawn into his blood, every fiber of his body during sleep, and it’s too late.

But – why would he think that.

Shouldn’t he feel relieved?

Glad that it – this is happening?

His guardian angel has done  _something_  to the night, yes, but he’s one of the good guys, yes?

Never mind what Stiles thought before, Feniel is still trying to protect him, right?

Save him.

Stiles slowly turns around in his room, as if trying to decide what to do, who to call. It never occurred to him yet to turn on the lights – maybe because he feels like that might trigger some sort of chain reaction, like as soon as the spark from the light bulb hits whatever this room, this town is filled with – not air – might ignite and set the night on fire.

Then Stiles’ eyes find the letter.

It’s sitting on his desk, propped up against a stack of books that seemed to have been piled on top of each other deliberately to hold the white envelope on which Stiles can make out his own name blinking over to him in the darkness.

STILES.

Big letters penciled onto the surface with the sharpie that’s lying next to it on the desk, like the person who meant to leave it behind had forgotten to address it to him, had seen the sharpie and, following a sudden impulse, put Stiles’s name down there.

Like Stiles, if he found a closed letter on his desk in his room without a name on the front, would think,  _Gee, I wonder who that is for?_

Stiles walks over to the desk and picks the envelope up.

It’s heavy and thick, like someone shoved more pages into it than would really fit.

Stiles stares at it for a second, at the big but not necessarily clumsy, writing, then rips it open unceremoniously and when the sound comes out completely wrong, like a choked record rather than the sound of torn paper, he shudders.

Pulls the sheet out of the envelope and, coming out with it, are two smaller letters which of course explains its weight. They land noiselessly on the floor, one on top of Stiles’ feet and Stiles can see that words are written on them as well, but not with sharpie, several lines, what looks like addresses, penned down in thin, fine lettering.

Stiles just lets the empty envelope drop to the floor as well, then lifts his gaze to look at what he’s holding in his hands.

It’s a single sheet of paper, folded twice to fit in the envelope and Stiles opens it with trembling fingers.

He makes a few steps over to the window, then tilts his hand with the paper so the faint light coming in from the streetlights and moon, ghosting over the floor and Stiles’ naked feet and hands, would also illuminate the writing that looks like someone hurried over the surface, dropping uneven black letters all over it, rather than lingering on wording or elegance.

Tilts his head a little, too, and starts reading the letter that starts with,

 

 

 

Stiles,

it is going to happen soon, and, I fear, I will not be entirely able to influence the outcome.

So when you read this, it means that things have taken their foreordained course and Lucifer has been dealt with, finally.

But I want you to not worry and, please, understand.

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time and reached the conclusion that, yes, it is worth it.

I’m talking about the greater good, and the words have never meant more to me than now. It has to be like this, Stiles.

Please pass the encased letter on to my sister (address on the envelope), the other one to Scott. He’s a good guy.

I cannot write more, I have to focus now, or it might yet fail.

But know this.

That keeping you safe is the thing that matters most to me and be ensured that, even though I wish I’d lived differently, being able to choose the way I’ll go, and why, makes me happy now almost.

Yours eternally.

D.

 

 

 

Stiles lets his hand with the letter drop, like it’s too heavy.

He’s standing in the middle of the dark room, facing the window.

Eyes closed and who knows what he’s seeing there.

More darkness, probably.


	24. LUCIFER UNLEASHED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . .
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: you guys, there's an epilogue :* (I uploaded that as Part 2)
> 
> (rather than a summary, I thought I'd just let the emptiness sit there...)
> 
> final chapter and a last twist, as I hope. love me or hate me, there was no other way. or, maybe I just didn’t think about it hard enough – or, could be that I’m just that cynical.  
> anyway, if you’re like me and you can’t bear NOT knowing beforehand whether a character is going to die or not, then go down to the note at the end that'll tell you
> 
> thank you all for being so wonderful, for encouraging me to continue, for sharing your thoughts and inspiring me <3 <3 I feel blessed to have you as readers - I hope you'll like (or at least do not completely hate) the ending that I concocted

 

I had seen birth and death,  
But had thought they were different

(“The Journey of the Magi”)

 

 

_I see you now._

(Stiles Stilinski)

 

 

 

 

D.

D for Derek, isn’t it?

D_____ .

No time to sign his full name, no time to explain, just – no time.

Only this.

Derek is going to die.

No – if Stiles is to believe the letter Derek left for him, he’s dead already.

Stiles opens his eyes and the soundless darkness hits his pupils.

He blinks several times but the room is still slipping in and out of focus and Stiles knows, this isn’t Farnoêlle’s doing.

It’s the panic rising in his throat.

“N-no,” he says to the room, but his voice is still strangely muffled by the weird atmosphere that Stiles woke up to.

“No... no, Derek... _no_....”

And he’s running his hands through his hair, accidentally drops the letter, picks it back up, then has to move, is moving, shifting around, then pacing his room, staring ahead, but not seeing anything, and he’s going to scream, he knows he’s going to scream, God, oh God, please.

For the first time in his life he knows how Lydia feels.

He needs to – he has to fucking do something, must – call – just call Scott or, or – anyone, just – get help. This isn’t happening, please.

Don’t let this happen.

Stiles stumbles over to his nightstand, picks his phone up and unlocks it. His hands are shaking so violently that he only manages to hit the icon upon tapping the display for like the fifth time.

His thoughts are looping just this one word.

_No – no – no – no – no – no – no..._

But it makes sense now.

It’s all making sense.

“ _Fuck!!_ ”

Frustrated, Stiles throws his phone against the wall.

There’s no sound when it breaks apart on contact and drops on the carpet in pieces.

Then his knees can no longer hold.

Helplessly, Stiles drops to the floor, his whole body shaking and he’s hugging his shoulders, eyes wide open.

Because he knows, yes, he knows.

It’s why the angel’s plan will succeed after all.

It’s why Derek agreed to go along with it, it’s why he believed it would work.

It’s also why he’d apparently been hesitant for a long time.

Afraid.

It’s why angelic pacts aren’t comparable to deals with the devil.

They’re _exactly the same_ – unjustly favoring the party on behalf of which it is forged.

Not deal with an angel.

Deal _for_ an angel.

It’s why Scott and the rest of the pack have always only had half of the plan, like one half of a photograph that the angel has ripped apart, the one with the beach and the sunset, while Phanual is fucking clutching the piece with the bloodied corpse in a deck chair under a large umbrella.

It’s why the angel’s plan has never really been a plan at all.

It has never been about _tricking_ Lucifer.

It has been about overpowering him.

And what is stronger than a human entering into a pact, lending their bodies to heavenly powers?

A sacrifice.

The ultimate sacrifice.

Offering their lives up to the supernatural powers like brave little soldiers.

Giving your life itself.

A sacrifice so powerful, not even Lucifer could withstand.

It’s why it has never been about _saving_ Stiles at all.

Or about any human whatsoever.

It has always, from the very beginning, been about _power_.

The thoughts are running wild in Stiles’ head while he’s breathing in and out heavily, but not getting any air, it’s not working, it’s not – okay, focus, focus, FOCUS!!

And he jumps up, fingers clutching strands of his own hair, but he just opens his hands and lets them flutter to the carpet, then darts out of his room, almost braining himself on the door frame in the darkness.

“Dad,” he breathes out, his voice not really working, even if it could spite the foreign silence, “Dad, dad...,” and he throws the door to his father’s bedroom open. Finds it empty, the bed made like no one lay in it in a long time.

Maybe ever.

Stiles is alone in the house.

And he’s also alone in this neighborhood, the only living, moving, breathing thing with the exception of the cat on the wall in front of the house, maybe.

It’s why no one comes running, no one so much as sticks their head out the window, no light goes on in any of the houses when Stiles screams.

No, this can’t be true.

What is this – where has Faniel trapped him?

And why?

What is going on?

Stiles is still breathing too much, too fast, he’s lightheaded and Derek, Derek is dying and he isn’t the only one and Stiles can’t do anything about it and there’s no one who could, no one, no one –

And then he stops.

Drops to his knees in front of his dad’s bed.

That’s right.

There is one.

One – creature who could do something, and who would, Stiles knows it to be true, who _would_ if he only _asked_.

If he offered whatever.

And Stiles starts, desperately weak at first.

“Theo...”

Then louder, more determined, “ _Theo_.”

At last, he’s yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs even though his voice barely seems to make it a few inches out into the viscous night, that tenacious silence that is wrapping around him tightly like a huge transparent chewing gum.

“ _Theo! Theooo!_ ”

And he’s sobbing in-between words, “Theo, you fucking son-of-a-bitch...”

He _has_ to hear him.

He can't have been extinguished. Stiles will only believe it when he sees it.

And then Stiles’ ears pick up a sound that he didn’t make, it’s faint, but it’s there.

“Stiles... Stiles?”

It’s coming from the hallway.

Stiles jumps up – his knees, they can barely support his weight and his legs are shaking so badly as he spills out onto the hallway, hits his shoulder hard on the doorframe on his way out once again, doesn’t care.

“Theo – Theo-”

“Stiles, where the fuck are you?”

And right in front of him, Theo is shifting into focus.

He looks like a hologram, the way his image is flickering and a little fuzzy around the legs.

Solid, then transparent again and Stiles understands.

Something that Faniel said.

_Hasn’t anyone ever told you that if spoken correctly, if you say it the right way, a person’s name can summon that person himself, almost?_

And he repeats Theo’s name, is calling out to him, _wanting_ him here, by his side, for once.

 _Needing_ him here.

And it works, of course it does.

Stiles knows it does because it’s part of Phanual’s plan.

Why would he have told Stiles otherwise?

But Stiles has made a decision.

Spinning around himself in his room, tearing out strands of his own hair, it popped into his mind, what it is that he has to do and he can’t think, can’t reflect on it right now, no time, Derek’s dying, no time.

Stiles just _knows_.

“Stiles! Stiles, talk to me, Stiles!”

Theo is shaking him violently and from the way he’s gripping Stiles’ shoulders, it seems like he wants to make sure Stiles is real, not just opaque but flesh and blood.

“ _Fuck_ , I can’t hear your heartbeat in this – I woke up and you were gone, nowhere in the house and-”

“It’s Ferniel,” Stiles says and repeats it and clutches Theo’s wrists to make him stop, to make him listen.

It is vital that he listen and understand.

“It’s Ferniel and he’s doing this and he got Derek to sacrifice himself and you gotta – save him – make it stop, it’s not supposed to, it’s not-”

“Stiles, Stiles, calm down! What the hell are you talking about?”

Theo’s voice sounds like someone is messing with the volume and it’s driving Stiles crazy, but at least he can catch the words.

“This, this, all around us, the – the soundlessness, he – she did this-”

“Stiles,” and Theo shakes Stiles’ hands off with determination and grabs his shoulders tightly to make him listen, “Stiles, I know. I know, calm down, all is good. Calm down.”

“No you don’t understand, dumbass,” Stiles is yelling and he’s shaking and writhing and Theo has trouble holding him steady, “You don’t fucking – it’s Derek, Phanuel got him to sacrifice himself, you gotta stop the – the ritual or whatever this is, you gotta save him, Theo, please, _please_ -”

Theo blinks, an expression of surprise on his face.

Then he reacts instantly.

He lets go of Stiles and then he’s in the bedroom, moving so fast that Stiles can barely see it. When he stumbles into the room, Theo has picked Derek’s letter up from the floor, is frowning over the lines, but only for a moment.

Then his eyes widen.

He lets his hand with the letter sink and turns around and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of his expression.

Horror.

“Theo, wh-”

But a noise from downstairs is stopping him.

Someone is moving around downstairs, it sounds like chairs are scraping across the tiles, like a table is being dragged through the room below this one, and Stiles shouldn’t be able to hear it, but since he does he knows it’s meant for him. And he turns around and follows it without thinking, doesn’t even hear Theo call out to him.

“No, Stiles, don’t!”

Stiles hurries down the stairs and it’s easy now, not like the air is resisting his every movement. So Stiles would know he’s going the right way.

When Stiles walks into the kitchen, he is not surprised about the scene.

The table has indeed been pulled back from the wall. It’s in the middle of the kitchen now, chairs pushed out of the way as if to make room around it.

And then, there’s Faniel, beautiful and ethereal, hovering near the fridge and its whiteness looks oddly dirty and used next to her chiseled, luminescent paleness.

And then, there’s Derek.

Living, breathing, from the looks of it.

Now, _that_ does surprise Stiles _a little_ , admittedly.

Also, he’s relieved, so relieved, holy shit.

“Derek,” he starts towards him, “Derek, wh-” but a tight grip wraps around his wrist, pulls him back.

Stiles tugs at it angrily, turns around to tell Theo to let go, but is met with a stern look.

“That’s not Derek.”

And Theo is addressing Phanualle now.

“Am I right? Old friend?”

When she speaks, her voice protrudes through the room and goes right into Stiles’ brain, makes it vibrate, as if the silence were especially made to wrap around it, channel it.

“He’s not gone, if that’s what you mean.”

They have locked eyes and Stiles thinks he can feel the tension – the power. Almost like, if he stretched out his hand, he could touch it.

But then, Theo won’t let go of it. Of Stiles’ hand.

He’s still clutching it tightly and Stiles – he’s glad about it.

It’s like Theo’s hand is the only thing keeping him from slipping into this reality completely, dissolving into the silence.

Become a part of its odd density.

Theo’s stepping into the room now and shoving Stiles behind his back, almost as if shielding him.

“You pulled a nice little trick,” he says, grimacing, like, in his head, he’s really calling the angel names.

“You set up a dimension around Stiles just to lure me here? Why go out of your way like this?”

Stiles has a hard time following.

For one, he’s absolutely wrecked from the massive panic attacks he’s just been through, his whole body is still trembling in the aftermath. Then, second, his eyes are on Derek’s features that are, if not lifeless, then completely indifferent. What’s more horrible is that Derek seems to be looking back at him, Stiles. Cognizant, that is.

Recognizing him.

And not caring.

But besides that, is sounded like Theo just said that Pheniel created a separate dimension – like this is, in fact, an alternate dimension, set up for a sole purpose. To trap Stiles in here, make him panic and call out to Theo.

Right.

Call him, say his name, _summon_ him.

Because –

“Well, it’s not like you would have come, had _I_ been the one saying your name. Isn’t that right, Mylord?”

Theo doesn’t even snort or chuckle or roll his eyes.

He’s apparently beyond sarcasm and condescension because all there is on his face is this deadly coldness, like his whole features are locked in it, and Stiles understands that that’s the look Theo gets when he realized something went horribly wrong.

For _him_.

“I knew you were an obnoxious little worm, Fannial. I should have gotten rid of you long ago.”

And he’s gazing at her beautiful and soft features with a look of utmost disgust, as if he could see right through the flesh and spot something nasty there. Something _dead_.

“But then, Mylord, if I understand correctly, you never hit the right frequency. And you never succeeded in banning me completely.”

Smiling evanescently.

“Because I couldn’t say your name right, it didn’t work properly,” Theo is saying now and it sounds grim. Bitter.

The truth.

“Oh yes, the syllables, they’re ever changing,” Farnoelle says and she lets out a melodic laugh that sounds like two voices wrapped into one and makes Stiles’ head swoon.

He rounds Theo slowly, carefully, and attempts yet another advance into Derek’s direction, but Theo keeps him from moving further into the room, this time by simply wrapping his whole arm around Stiles’ upper body, pulling him into a hug and keeping him there, flush against his hot chest that is heaving in anger.

“ _I_ will not be summoned,” Phonoél is now saying haughtily and her eyes fall on Stiles, “I will not be called or sent anywhere I do not choose to go. Unlike the Lord of the Lands of Fire who lets himself be called by a human boy.”

And then she speaks to Stiles directly.

“You see, Stiles – to call Lucifer into another dimension, to make him fold himself into the hole – willingly – it did not just take anyone to do that. I could not have accomplished it. It _had_ to be _you_.”

Her words weigh so heavy on Stiles’ ears and mind, he wants to scream.

“What did you do to Derek?” he forces out, even though it takes him quite an effort to barge into these two ancient beings conversing – yes, in a language that he, Stiles, can understand, at a pace he can follow even, but not meant for him.

“Did it not say in the letter?” Faniel says with a slow, dismissive gesture. “In any way, you guessed right, Stiles. He gave himself up for you – but, ultimately, for me. You see, the vessel has to _agree_ or I cannot take it.”

“So – so – he-”

Swallows.

Panic rising again, he wouldn’t have thought it possible. He would have assumed that, by this time, he’d be incapable of falling apart even further.

“Calm down, Stiles,” Theo grits out. “It’s just a spell. Derek is fine.”

“Ah, yes, he is fine,” Phanial says. “Right now. But he won’t be anymore in a few – what do you call it? Minutes.”

Stiles is blinking and Theo doesn’t react either, so Faniel continues without interruption, ends her sentence with, “...for thou wilt slay him, Mylord. To retort to a language that weighs more heavily for an important occasion like this.”

“But – but you’re my guardian angel,” Stiles says, eyes wide open and his voice raspy and even though he cannot hear it, Phanual seems to catch it.

Well, not surprisingly.

She made the silence after all.

The silence is made of her.

“I was just using terms you would understand, Stiles. And if you know Lucifer as evil, as I trust you do – I am, indeed, his counterpart. His opposing force.”

“She cannot bear bowing down to me, Stiles, none of them can,” Theo says bitterly, “Or understand my fixation on life, human life in particular.”

“He is cruel, Stiles. You know that. Listen to your heart,” Faniel says and her watery blue eyes seem to penetrate directly into his soul.

It’s not only uncomfortable. It’s fucking maddening, like an ice cold hand reaching into his soul and – twisting around things.

“And yet, are you so different? Using – using _him_ \- you filthy little-”

“ _For the greater good_ ,” she says with finality and then flicks her eyes over to where Derek has been standing throughout the whole exchange, perfectly immobile.

“He is Lucifer, Stiles. He is the Devil. Do not forget that,” Phanuelle continues but she is looking at Derek, her blue eyes gazing at him now as if she’s telling him what to do telepathically.

“I can hear your thoughts, Stiles. I can read your mind. I know what you feel at all times. And it’s the strength and depth of your emotion that made this possible, Stiles, and I want to thank you for that. Stiles... And I beg you, please remember what you wanted before – what you’ve always wanted, Stiles, even though you feel like you’re going insane, and like you do not know right from wrong anymore. Do not give in to this. There is a right. There is a wrong. Always.”

She lifts her right hand and it looks like she’s casting a spell, but it’s probably just showmanship.

“Rid yourself and this universe of him and free the Here and Now of the vilest of all creatures. Forever. _Derek_.”

And Derek turns his head to look at her, and Theo, who is still pressing Stiles to his chest, is forcing words into his ear now, “Remember what I told you, Stiles, trust your instincts! There’s no such thing as purity. It’s about _balance_.”

He’s holding him so tight, Stiles can hardly breathe, and he seems desperate, almost, Theo. Like he knows what’s about to happen.

Because a moment later, Stiles is being wrenched out of his arms, away from the warmth of his chest and stomach and from this scent that is just _Theo_ – the only thing familiar to Stiles in this bizarre kitchen that looks like his but isn’t.

It’s the oddest feeling, how his whole body is being tugged across the room and then the force, or invisible strings, or whatever it was – it’s just gone again abruptly and Stiles almost topples over. Slowly, clumsily, turns around to throw a look back at Theo who’s straining against, yes, invisible chains would probably be the best term.

He looks a lot like Scott did that one day in what feels like a different lifetime, when he tried to hurl himself at Theo but just – couldn’t.

Like he’s in pain, and his eyes are flashing a deep yellow bleeding into red around the edges and he’s baring his fangs and Stiles can practically touch the vibes of sheer power rolling off of him.

But it’s no use.

That must be Farnial’s combined omicron powers Scott had been talking about.

So, apparently a part of what the angel had told them is true. _And_ it seems to be working.

But he certainly never said anything about _this_ because now Phaniel commands, her voice mesmerizing, “ _Derek_. Derek. Do it.”

And before Stiles can even ask, before he can even wonder, _Do what, how and to whom?_ , it’s already happening.

Derek is in front of him all of a sudden, and his hand shoots up to grip Stiles’ neck and push his head down so Stiles is bending over. Derek’s fingers are hurting him and just – what the fuck is going on.

He thinks he can hear Theo snarl and throw expletives at Phanial who stands silently by, so apparently Theo knows what this is.

And then Derek speaks for the first time.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I really am,” and Stiles suddenly finds himself hunched over the table thinking, Oh.

Alright.

So that’s what this is for.

The table.

That’s why it is where it is.

Not that Foeniel would have had to physically push it into the middle of the room for this purpose, not in a dimension that consists of nothing but her thoughts. But it served as a way to summon him, Stiles, down here.

“Derek,” Stiles forces out, not sure if the calling-someone’s-name-thing is working with him, too, but it’s definitely worth a try. Derek is pressing his upper body and head onto the table, flattening Stiles’ cheek on the table top and bruising his cheek bone and, yeah, as good a shot as any, so he keeps repeating, “Derek, what the fuck are you doing. Derek, listen to me. Derek! Fucking _stop_!”

Because suddenly he feels a hand tugging at his boxers violently, working them down over his hips.

Stiles can’t believe it.

“Ah, it’s no use, Stiles. Your voice cannot reach further than your breath.”

But Ferniel’s explanation is pointless. Stiles wouldn’t have spoken anymore anyway.

The relief to see Derek alive has given way to a silent horror.

Stiles stares ahead at the cupboard in the brightly lit kitchen, the counter with the coffee maker and knife block on top while Derek is moving behind him.

Stiles knows he’s opening his pants.

Then he can feel him grab his butt cheek so forcefully as if he were planning on ripping it clear out of Stiles’ body.

And then it’s already there, at Stiles’ entrance and he – he can’t believe this is happening.

This is _not_ fucking happening and the only thing left for Stiles to say, ridiculously, absolutely fucking ironically, is,

“Theo – help-”

Well, it does make sense, all irony aside, as in Theo being the only one present willing to stop this.

Not just willing.

Stiles can hear him thrashing against the door and he’s snarling, he’s going totally nuts over there.

But it doesn’t change anything about Derek’s dick pushing up against Stiles’ hole and it feels like a piece of wood that Derek tries to clumsily insert into Stiles’ butt and he fucking _cannot believe this is happening._

It’s not, it’s not, it’s _not_.

Stiles can hear a frustrated growl – for some reason Derek’s voice travels easily, just like Farnoelle’s – and then Stiles yells out in pain, even though, of course, it comes out as a muffled yelp, like Stiles is pressing his head into a pillow and is not, in fact, being bent over a table in his own kitchen by Derek Hale who just pushed his thumb into Stiles’ butt hole in what seems like the somewhat apish attempt to pull it open.

Then Derek’s finger feels moist suddenly, and Stiles doesn’t know whether it’s something Phanual did or whether Derek actually spit on it, but a moment later Derek rips his finger out and Stiles bites down onto his lower lip to stifle, completely needlessly, another yell.

Then closes his eyes. Says, “Theo, please, help me, _please_...” but even in the other reality, it would have come as a mere whisper really.

He has not yet struggled against Derek’s grip and that’s because he physically can’t.

He’s totally and completely frozen.

Deer-in-the-headlight-immobile.

He can’t move a finger and not because of something Pheniell did. It’s because he’s fucking scared to death.

He went into shock.

...and then Derek is pushing into him.

And Stiles’ vision goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

So there actually _is_ a worse.

Stiles should have known.

There’s always something more soul shattering than what you experienced before. Probably because Stiles went into this already broken.

And if Stiles were to be taken out of this scene and given time to think and marvel and reflect, he probably couldn’t say what is worse, really.

Being coerced into sex – which is effectively rape – by Theo with his ex-girlfriend and the dude Stiles is in love with forced to listen to the whole thing.

Or being bent over the kitchen table by that very guy and, with Theo forced to watch, being fucked so roughly, so savagely, that Stiles knows he’s bleeding after the third thrust.

Derek is raping him, and that’s already the euphemism, and he’s going at a rate that Stiles knows, too, that he will not survive this.

And the pain, God.

The pain.

Around the edges of his mind Stiles is wondering whether Derek had seen any of this coming. Whether he’d suspected that Pheniel would use his body as a machine to get back at Theo and, while doing so, destroy Stiles.

Curtains up and enter his very own guardian angel.

Old Stiles would have had a few dry comments about the irony, the fucking joke his entire existence seems to be.

New Stiles – the one bent over said table – is hurting.

He’s drooling onto the table top and his saliva is mixing with the stuff trickling out of his eyes and his cheeks are scraping over the wooden surface and his feet are numb.

Then, all of a sudden, Derek’s hand in his neck is gone.

And so is Derek.

No longer held up by brute force, Stiles slowly slides off the table. Collapses on the floor. Tries to move, sit up, or anything at all, but can’t. Too painful.

He knows he’s seriously injured.

He felt it tear.

He’s panting and trying to breathe the pain away but it’s so overwhelming that he can’t see.

It’s only when he hears Theo frantically call “ _Stiles_!! Stiles, breathe! Fucking stay with me, don’t you dare-” that he finds it in himself to force his eyes open.

Stiles peels back his eyelids and makes the room slip into focus, even though it hurts his pupils. The neon light seems brighter than before.

It’s Theo, a few feet away from him, and he has wrestled Derek to the ground and this is it.

The moment.

It’s either Theo or Derek now.

Only one of them will come out physically alive in this reality – a fight to the death.

The ultimate showdown.

That’s what Derek was talking about in his letter even though he certainly didn’t think it would go down like _this_.

And just as anticipated, Theo is struggling with the forces of his pact that seem to be running wild, Stiles can see it, he has trouble lifting his arm but still does it and there’s blood pouring out of his ears and eyes, along with black stuff that seems to be oozing from his whole body, every crook and fold.

Lucifer is literally about to burst out of his shell.

This is it.

The end.

 

 

 

 

Then Stiles comes to – or that’s what it feels like.

Only a second has passed, if at all, but he can suddenly see a little clearer, the pain a little less vivid maybe or maybe it’s because he saw Ferniel shift at the edge of his, Stiles’ vision.

It’s in this instant that he knows what he has to do.

He takes a deep breath.

Then he speaks.

“Theo! _I release you_.”

It happens instantly.

Theo falls forward, comes crushing down onto Derek, collapsing on top of him from the sheer force of having the powers of the pact ripped out of him.

Stiles did it.

He said the words.

He lifted the pact.

Freed Lucifer.

Unleashed him.

For a few heart beats nothing happens.

Then Theo darts up and he looks over to Stiles, just _one quick glance_.

And then he’s already lifting his claw, ready to leap at his victim, the deadliest creature on the planet again.

Ready to kill – Derek?

Is it-?

Not bound by a human pact, no restraint for his cruelty, for his lust to mangle, shatter and kill.

And, oh, does he ever want to.

For a moment, it might seem like Stiles picked Lucifer over Derek.

Like he unbound him and thus gave him the ultimate advantage over him.

Like it was he, Stiles who picked the winner in this fight to the death.

But – understand.

You have to consider that, Stiles and Theo, they exchanged a look. A meaningful one and, knowing each other deeply, Theo understood instantly what it was that Stiles wanted him to do.

And it’s not to kill Derek.

Because the desperate wish to save Derek is what got them both into this in the first place.

So, when Theo jumps, it’s not at Derek who’s on the floor under him, exposed to his sharp claws and weak and utterly helpless, knocked unconscious.

No, not Derek.

Theo hurls himself at the angel who has been watching the scene with nothing less than shellshock written into her beautiful features – and Theo’s vision is red and all he can see is his prey, he’s needed this, been _craving_ it.

And Farniel?

Before Theo can hit her she moves out of the way swiftly, with otherworldly speed and then she does the weirdest thing.

Stiles can’t really be sure because he’s still in shock and he’s losing blood, too, but it looks like Phanuel is transforming.

Or, no.

She’s _shedding her skin_ and it’s absolutely fucking disgusting, the way the head is twisting out of the blonde woman’s mouth that is grotesquely widened, coiling and uncoiling, an ugly little thing with white, dead skin and long black hair being born out of the human vessel and the word _Nagini_ shoots into Stiles’ head, he doesn’t know why.

Then the body is just lying there, mouth locked in a bizarre laugh, but otherwise looking normal, skin as doughy as it was before, but now the word _macerated_ seems more fitting.

Blue eyes glazed over, a white foggy film settled on them.

And that thing that just literally fucking crawled out of a grown woman’s body and hit the tiles with a disgusting wet _splosh_ – it’s frail, the size of a child, with long black hair and horrible face – it’s locked in a deadly embrace with Theo.

With Lucifer.

Because Stiles can see his power clearly now, can see _him_ clearly, the way his fire is illuminating his skin and burning through his eyes and he understands, for the first time, how _large_ he is. That his human body can just barely contain the powers of this ancient creature.

And the thing that is Fenuel, no less cruel than Theo, if not as ancient and powerful, her horrible shape apparently some kind of replacement vessel, something she would use to travel from one host to another, built out of the internal organs of the lifeless body in front of the fridge.

And the way they’re holding on to each other in this struggle for power, for _existence_ , it’s like an embrace, and they’re not moving and neither is Stiles who cannot believe the scene unfolding in front of his eyes.

But something _is_ moving in the kitchen, something human.

Derek is coming to.

He’s sitting up where Theo knocked him out a few seconds ago and his eyes immediately find Stiles’ who’s crouching by the table, back pressing against one of the wooden feet and hugging his knees and bleeding even though he doesn’t seem to be aware of it.

But before Derek can start making his way over to Stiles, pick up where he left off, fulfill his order, the whole world shifts.

Tilts, somehow.

Like someone took a huge knife and cut the whole world in half.

It’s something Theo did.

Lucifer.

Because he’s moving now, and he’s got Feniel by her arms and black hair and her black and white features look absolutely nightmarish as a hole – a literal _hole_ in the _ground_ , in the middle of the _fucking kitchen_ big enough to swallow them whole – opens up and Theo starts working, pushing, dragging her toward it.

She’s clutching at the air, her nails scraping across the floor and Stiles’ vision blurs.

He doesn’t know whether it’s because what Theo is doing is making this dimension crumble away, or whether it’s because he, Stiles, isn’t feeling the pain so much anymore because he’s bleeding out. Who knows.

Then the room suddenly fills with sound, like all the noise – from the rustling of leaves to Farnoelle’s shrieks that sound more human now and less otherworldly – all the sounds had been accumulating on the edges of this reality, bending around it, and the moment it collapses, they come crashing back into it and are making Stiles’ ears ring.

The last thing he sees is Theo’s face, and he looks wild, savage, the way he’s dragging Phanuel down into the pit, her hands reaching out – to him, Stiles?

Her macerated mouth oddly forming around the word ‘ _Please!_ ’ as Theo’s dragging her down.

Calling his, Stiles’, name even, but in vain, her pleas are met with emptiness, empty looks and immaterial space that he – she – _it_ cannot hold on to.

Then they’re both gone.

 _Huenial_ , Stiles’ guardian angel of yore.

And Theo.

Stiles’ eyes close on the vision of the hole sealing itself up, the blackness being so abruptly replaced with the ugly patterned tiles again like it never existed, only to get replaced by another blackness, the one Stiles is slowly sinking into now and, quite frankly – it’s not all that bad.

On the opposite.

Never has the rustle of clothes, the shuffle of knees on the floor sounded so good to him and if that’s the last thing he is to ever hear, he’d still be content.

To Stiles even death itself will be filled with noise now, alive.

 

 

 

 

 

\---

 

Stiles comes to to the rhythmic _beep_ of a machine.

Once he is conscious of himself, then of his body and the sound in close proximity, the world falls back into place.

He opens his eyes. Turns his head.

Even before the room in front of his eyes starts making sense, someone shouts, “Stiles!”

It’s Scott.

Right.

He’s in a hospital bed.

Something happened.

Something bad.

“He’s gone,” Scott is saying eagerly and he’s by Stiles’ side now, by the bed, talking to him in a low voice, “You did it, Stiles, you banned him, you banned Lucifer, you – woah.”

He frowns, then lifts his eyes up to the monitor. It’s then that Stiles realizes there’s tubes attached to his arm.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he says and his voice sounds raspy. His throat is hurting like hell. What the hell is going on?

Scott puts his hand gently down on Stiles’ right shoulder to keep him from sitting up.

“My – my legs – my-”

“It’s okay,” Scott says and the smile has vanished from his face. He’s looking earnestly at him now.

“You’re okay, you’re – you were hurt pretty badly. Life-threateningly. Derek – he brought you here. Ahem – I think I’m gonna call someone, let them know you’re up. And I gotta call your dad. He asked me to come here after school because he had to go back to the station. I’m so glad you’re okay, man. I’m so fucking glad, oh my God...”

“Where is Derek? Is he alive? Where – where is he?” Stiles says and it’s slowly and with a barely audible voice because he remembers.

It all comes back to him now.

The letter, Feniel in the kitchen. Derek down there, too and keeping Theo –

“Where’s Theo?”

Another frown from Scott. He turns around to the door, then back to Stiles, alarmed. Flicks his eyes over to where a red button is dangling on a tube that is wrapped around the rail, in reach of Stiles’ right hand.

The emergency button.

Like he’s considering pressing it. Like he isn’t sure whether Stiles can be left alone, even for a second.

“Derek is alive, yeah, he’s fine. He snapped back. Phanuel had put a spell on him. And Theo is gone. It worked. The plan worked. Stiles, it’s okay now.”

“It worked....,” Stiles is saying, slowly.

Darkly.

“Yeah. Derek told us what – what happened.”

“...and what did he tell you?”

Scott is staring at Stiles.

“What he – what he did.”

Stiles nods, once.

His neck, throat, arms and eyes are hurting, even his nose feels sore and inflamed. But his lower body, everything from the navel down – nothing.

Fucking nothing.

He clutches the rail, attempts to draw himself up again but Scott keeps him down with more determination this time.

“Stiles, you’re not supposed to move.”

“My legs, my-”

“It’s from the anesthetic,” a voice is saying now from the door. A man in a white coat, apparently the physician, is advancing into the room, attended by two nurses one of whom immediately reaches up to the monitor and the other starts asking him questions. The man introduces himself as Dr. Pearson and one of the nurses as Nurse Abboud, the hopsital’s SANE.

Then turns to look at Scott.

“Uh, right,” he says and pats Stiles’ shoulder lightly, carefully as if afraid he might break him and says, “I’ll be outside, okay?”

Then Stiles is staring at the ceiling, answering questions and doesn’t resist when his arm is being picked up or the blanket thrown back, not even when the doctor starts feeling his abdomen. Tells him something about heavy internal bleedings, explains what part it was that they fixed with the operation.

So he had an operation.

An emergency operation as Dr. Pearson clarifies.

Because he’d lost a lot of blood.

It happens, Dr. Pearson says, nodding and throwing a look down at his clipboard, as if to make sure he’s really talking to the correct patient.

Looks up to Stiles and says it again.

It happens.

Then tells him that Nurse Abboud is going to check on his wounds, meaning the one that she can reach apparently, because Stiles, with the help of both nurses, has to roll onto his side.

When his gown is being lifted he closes his eyes and bites down on his lip. Then is startled by the pain – not in his butt.

His lip.

His lower lip, mh.

Yeah, he remembers biting it. Biting it hard.

Which would explain the stitches.

And how he can’t really speak properly.

“Mr. Stilinski, Nurse Abboud is our certified sexual assault nurse examiner,” Dr. Pearson tells him while one of the nurses, not Nurse Abboud but Nurse Smith or something, is wiping the blood off his chin.

She doesn’t look him in the eyes while doing it.

“I want to talk to Scott,” Stiles says. Then, to Nurse Abboud who’s helping him lie on his back again, “Sorry, but I – I have to.”

“I assure you, Nurse Abboud is an excellent-”

“No,” Stiles interrupts him. “I need to talk to my friend. _Now_.” Then, pleadingly, “Please.”

The doctor frowns, exchanges a look with the nurse who nods.

“Five minutes.”

The doctor walks out of the room together with the other nurse while Nurse Abboud smiles at him. As soon as they’re out of the room, she says, “Before I am legally allowed to leave I need to ask you one question, Mr. Stilinski.”

Her voice is gentle and soothing.

Stiles nods and the nurse, who had waited for him to signal his agreement, goes on.

“Mr. McCall is your friend, right?”

Stiles nods, not sure where this is going.

“Has he – at any time – pressured you – or hurt you in any way?”

Well, if you count the times Scott tried to kill Stiles because he couldn’t control his shift...

“What? No, no he hasn’t, why would you ask that?”

“Have you ever felt uncomfortable around Mr. McCall?”

Stiles blinks and, when it’s slowly dawning on him, with determination, “No. Scott hasn’t hurt me in any way at all. He hasn’t done anything to me.”

Nurse Abboud checks a few boxes on her clipboard and nods.

“Thank you, Mr. Stilinski. I’ll be ready to talk to you whenever you are.”

Stiles nods and he wants to smile at her but can’t. Thinks that yes, he might.

Maybe he’ll talk to her, yeah, he might.

But first he has to make sure what the official version is.

And find out what the fuck happened.

Apparently they didn’t do a very good job at covering it up this time.

Nurse Abboud smiles at him, then turns around. She opens the door softly and says, “Mr. McCall.”

As soon as Scott is in earshot, Stiles says, “What did you tell my dad?”

Scott’s smile immediately fades away.

He waits for Nurse Abboud to close the door behind her, then he draws a chair up to Stiles’ bed, an ugly white plastic thing that looks like a cheap lawn chair.

They look at each other and when Stiles doesn’t look like he’s going to speak anytime soon, Scott sighs.

Runs his hand through his hair and says, “Okay, uhm... you really want to know, mh? Not wait until you feel better?”

Silence and a steady gaze from Stiles.

“Okay, where to start. Er.... best thing is probably, I start with my mum getting the phone call from the hospital. That was yesterday morning. I was getting ready for school and she came up to my room and, like – I already knew something was wrong, you know, from the way she looked at me, er.. okay, sorry, I’m, like, rambling – so she said that she got this call from the hospital saying that you were brought in and you were severely injured and that your dad had been notified and he’d asked for me. So I got ready, mum drove me over and she stayed even though she wasn’t working yesterday.”

Scott takes a deep breath, and he doesn’t look at Stiles when he says this.

“Man, I think I freaked out a little. I called Kira and told her to call everyone and – God, I’m so fucking glad you’re here and alive and – I’m so glad.”

And he leans over, halfway raises from the chair as if meaning to hug Stiles, then remembers the reason he’s here for and the fact that Stiles might not appreciate physical contact, so he just pats his hand gently.

“Okay, but,” Stiles starts, then swallows. The images in his head keep coming, memories, more and more coherent and – quite frankly, Scott should have added ‘sane’ to his list because that’s a real fucking miracle.

“But – what did you tell my dad?”

Scott gives him a helpless look.

“There wasn’t much I could do. When I got here, you were still in surgery and – I didn’t even really learn what happened for like hours after that. No one would talk to me. Your dad – he was livid. He wouldn’t explain anything, he just asked one question after the other and I could piece together a few things from what he was asking, but nothing definite and, God, it was driving me crazy...”

He’s rubbing his forehead now.

“So what you’re saying is... my dad – _knows_?”

Scott doesn’t ask ‘what’.

He just says, with a small voice, “Yes.”

And then, “Sorry, man. And – and sorry that – Derek, he really didn’t know-”

“Where’s Derek? I-,” and Stiles shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. He might be imaging this, but his body seems to be hurting more and more by the minute.

“I thought he was going to die. I thought he was dead, holy shit...”

“Er, no, he’s okay. He was just under a spell. It had something to do with his omicron powers, I’m still not really getting it...”

Then Scott falls suspiciously silent and Stiles narrows his eyes.

“So where is he now? Is he here too?”

And he turns his head as if Derek were hiding behind a curtain or in the bathroom.

“And, by the way – why do I have a room for myself? I mean, my health care coverage sucks...”

“Apparently, that’s the normal procedure. You’ll eventually end up in a two or three bed room soon, that’s what my mum says...”

“Standard – procedure? For – teenagers with supernatural injuries?” Stiles says, frowning.

Scott doesn’t look at him when he responds, “Er, no. Sexual assault victims.”

“What?”

It’s only now that he’s understanding why Nurse Abboud would be here.

Why the hospital’s SANE would be wanting to talk with him.

“They, like – want to make sure you feel comfortable and, I think, also that you’re safe, you know...it could be a family member or a close friend. So they’re carefully picking the people they even let into your room,” Scott explains and he seems to be reciting his mother’s explanation.

Stiles is staring at him, mouth agape.

Yeah, he figured from the way the nurse had been fingering his butt, and from the doctor’s elaborations that they’d fixed what Derek had done to him – it just never occurred to him until now that this might have consequences.

Serious consequences.

Someone is going to get punished for raping Stiles.

Because rape is a horrible thing.

It’s just – Stiles is so used to having things happen to him by now, to this utter helplessness, that he never even considered seeking counseling or anything like that.

And, somehow, his eyes are moist now.

He’s not ready to touch on what happened just yet – let alone all the other times.

But he needs to ask the question.

So he does.

“Who did it? I mean.... I know... I mean, who do they _think_ did it?”

Scott lifts his head at this and looks him in the eyes.

Stiles can see that he’s tired, pale.

“They – the police, they think we don’t know. It was reported right away and – the official story is that Derek found you out in the woods, uhm.... and that was sort of easy to believe because Derek was devastated. He wouldn’t talk when he brought you in and they honestly wanted to put him in the psych ward for the night, but mum convinced them that he just needed some space to digest what he saw. Told them Derek is a close friend and all. And, as for your dad, er... from what he said – from his questions – apparently there was the body of a woman in your kitchen? She’d been missing for three weeks and – he wanted to know whether I knew her and told me no one can know that that’s where you were found. I think he needed time to get rid of it – or, rather, like – put it somewhere where she can be found. Or something.”

Stiles is looking down at his hands.

Of course.

Phanuel’s body.

The vessel.

The human shell the disgusting slimy black and white thing had spilled out of.

“What did you tell him?”

“Everything,” Scott says immediately and when Stiles’ head snaps up, he continues, “I had to, Stiles. You should’ve seen your dad, he was – he had a right to know. And we didn’t have a right to conceal – anything. I – fuck, I don’t know how I manage to screw up so magnificently all the time, I’m supposed to be the alpha...”

“There’s nothing else you could have done,” Stiles says because it’s the truth.

Scott sighs.

“Well, I think differently. Anyway, he knows about Lucifer. About Theo – about – your mum, too. How she died – because of _him_. I talked with him for like two hours and – I regretted it pretty soon because I was really scared he’d just fall apart. But like – he just listened to all I had to say, to all my answers, and then he went out.”

Uh-oh, is what Stiles is thinking now.

“Went.... out.... to do what?”

When Scott doesn’t answer right away, Stiles repeats, more loudly, “To do _what_ , Scott? He went out to do what?”

“Find Derek.”

Oh fuck.

Stiles tries to facepalm, but his hand still hooked up to the machines so even the slightest movement hurts, makes the needles twist beneath his skin, and he quickly puts it down again.

“He wanted to hear what Derek had to say and – Derek was still here and your dad took him to the same room we’d been in. It’s like a small room on the second floor they have for things like that, to give family members bad news and stuff. I was outside and I couldn’t help but – listen in and – he told your dad. That’s how I know what happened.”

“What did he tell him?” Stiles says mechanically.

He really doesn’t want to hear, to remember.

Not when the images are ghosting around in his brain as it is.

Memories of fear and desperation.

And pain.

But they are sort of dulled, like he’s not only numb on the outside, but on the inside as well, like it will hit him with full force once the medication that’s currently being pumped into his body wears off entirely.

“What, Scott? Say it.”

“He – just kept blabbering about how he was the one who did it. Who hurt you.”

Scott throws Stiles a look, then averts his gaze again, says, “And your dad put two and two together, I think, because he said something like ‘You-,’” and Scott pauses, but probably because Sheriff Stilinski had paused here as well.

Or, maybe not.

“...You – raped my son?’ And Derek was like, ‘Yes, yes, I was the one, I didn’t mean to, but I did’ – and it was clear that Derek was beside himself, I mean... he was _sobbing_. Like – violently.”

Stiles is pressing his lips together, pulls the corners of his mouth down.

He doesn’t want to hear this.

But he has to.

Bu he can’t take it.

But he has to.

“But I think your dad would have shot him if I hadn’t barged in. Mum was there, too, and we tried to get some sense into him. We managed to piece together that Derek had agreed to give his life up for you – Ferniel had told Derek he would get all the omicron powers, but that his body could only hold them for so long. That he would have enough time to off Lucifer, but that everything, internal organs, cells, his brain, everything would be destroyed in the process. Humans aren’t built to carry angelic powers detached from their source like that, not so much of them anyway. And apparently, there had been a plan to make Lucifer jealous before, but – it was abandoned because Derek had seen how much distress it caused you – that he would have to – basically rape you to even get near you.”

Scott falls silent.

They’re not looking at each other.

Stiles is staring at the wax curtains, white and sterile like the rest of the room, and remembers.

The reason why Derek couldn’t touch Stiles to make Theo jealous.

The reason why Theo had even gotten jealous in the first place.

Because of the things Stiles had felt – wanted – whenever Derek had been too close, and how the powers had started acting up to protect his deal with Theo and Stiles had panicked.

So, yeah.

Rape had basically been the only option.

It’s all making sense to Stiles now.

Derek had abandoned the plan.

But Fanial had not aborted the mission.

Only Derek hadn’t known.

“He didn’t know,” Stiles says. “It’s not his fault.”

And then, because it really is the truth, “He’s – he’s a victim, too. We both are.”

“So...,” Scott says, and it’s like he’s treading very carefully.

Almost like he doesn’t know whether he’s even allowed to talk about this.

“So it’s true? He – Derek – did it?”

Stiles nods, just once.

“Made Theo watch,” he says and wonders about how simple it sounds.

How the words don’t capture how it really was _at all._

“Dude that’s....,” Scott starts, then stops. Takes a deep breath, starts again, “That’s....”

“It’s okay. Now,” Stiles shrugs and he doesn’t even know why he would say this because nothing is fucking okay, _nothing_.

“And – what happened then?”

“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, er, let me see.... so we got all of this out of him in these maddeningly tiny bits and pieces and then I called Kira, and she stopped by together with Malia and they picked Derek up. Wasn’t easy,” and Scott lets out a whistle, “I think, he – I don’t know what he would have done. I’ve never seen him like this. And we still didn’t know whether you’re okay, just that you had lost a lot of blood and that that kind of surgery is difficult. Sometimes impossible.”

Scott runs his fingers through his hair again, as if the memory alone is fatiguing. Stiles doesn’t say anything. He keeps silent and waits for Scott to continue.

“Then your dad said,” but he turns around. It’s Nurse Abboud. She knocked and is sticking her head in now, reminding Scott with her soft voice that Stiles needs rest and that half an hour is up. And Scott nods, tells her he’ll be out in a minute.

“Okay, so your dad put Derek in custody – he is officially a suspect after all, I mean, logically, because he brought you in – and the pack is watching him, they’re all outside and Parrish is letting Kira and Malia stay right in front of the cell. I think – I think your dad really understands, but he’s – he was just very angry. And I get it. I can’t fucking believe this happened.”

Scott falls silent, then he slowly straightens his back, rises from the chair.

When the door opens again, Scott is already saying goodbye.

Stiles gets another almost-pat on the shoulder, a sad smile and the promise to wait outside, but Stiles tells him to go home and get some rest.

He’s just realizing that Scott must have been here since yesterday.

So Stiles repeats that he’s fine, or he will be, as Scott is already walking out and Scott turns around at the door and smiles – and he’s gone.

It’s only when the doctor is in the room again, checking his vitals and asking more questions, that Stiles remembers that he’d meant to tell Scott that it wasn’t his fault either.

 

 

 

Talking to his dad is really tough.

When the sheriff walks into the room and Stiles can see that he’d been _crying_ , he feels like throwing up.

Then he can’t get the words out, John, is just sitting there, in the exact same spot that Scott had been sitting in and even more oppressed than Scott, more awkward and even more – devastated.

Halfway through, he just gets up and hugs Stiles and almost unplugs the heart monitor doing it.

Stiles keeps apologizing and his dad keeps telling him he needs to rest and not worry about him and, please, _don’t apologize_ , Stiles, _God_ – but Stiles can’t help it, he feels so fucking guilty, he wants to die.

And how maddening is it that after everything, everything he’s been through, he still hasn’t managed to go out of this with his own father in blissful oblivion?

But no way in hell is Stiles telling him anything that Scott hasn’t blurted out yet and – okay, Stiles isn’t blaming Scott, yes?

He’d have done the same thing, probably. Had it been Scott, Stiles would have told Melissa, too. Because it would be cruel and disrespectful not to.

And, granted, the damage, literally, had already been done. When Derek had dumped Stiles’ limp body on the hospital steps – at least, that’s how Stiles imagines it happened – there had been no going back.

And if Derek hadn’t done that, Stiles would have died.

Yeah, okay.

He gets that.

Because the person – the creature, the one fixing him up usually, making him physically whole again, he’s –

“So... Lucifer, mh?” John is saying now after a horrible, almost five minute long silence.

“Yeah,” and Stiles shrugs.

Because he really and absolutely has nothing else to say to that.

“But he’s – Theo is definitely-”

“Gone, yeah,” and Stiles’ voice, oddly, is hoarse all of a sudden, like he’s getting a cold. Well, he might be, from the way his throat is hurting.

“So it’s over...”

A nod from Stiles.

“But we thought that so many times...”

“He’s gone. I saw it. I saw him disappear. He dragged – Feniel – he dragged the monster down into the abyss. Down to hell. They’re both gone.”

“You’re – Derek called him your guardian angel?” the sheriff says, frowning, like he never heard a more ill-fitting description in his entire life.

But that reminds Stiles of something.

He’s exhausted even though he slept before his dad had come in right after work, his eyelids are closing almost on their own accord, but he needs to sort this out now.

“Derek, you have to let him go, please.”

His father’s expression hardens.

“Please, dad, he – he didn’t do anything.”

“He did this,” his dad says coldly and with a curt nod in Stiles’ general direction and Stiles gets it.

“That’s not true. Lucifer – Theo did this. Fanualle did this. But it’s not Derek’s fault, he was – it was – _rape_ for him, too. He needs your help, dad. I’m scared – I’m scared he might do something to himself – okay? What Scott told me – I need to talk to him. He needs to come here, dad. Or just, let me call him. Please.”

After this speech, Stiles leans back a little and falls silent and he knows he won’t be able to speak again, not now. He’s so tired.

He hates for his dad – for anyone to see him like this, but he can’t help it.

There’s nothing he can do and even though he’s still on pretty heavy pain medication, his breath comes out rather ragged because it hurts, he can feel it.

Oh God, can he feel it.

 _Everywhere_.

He won’t be able to move for a while.

And then his dad who has risen from the chair is saying, slowly, “........okay. Okay, son,” and even though Stiles can’t see it because he closed his eyes, he knows the kind of look on his face. That trademark mixture of worried dad and cowboy.

“I’ll see what I can do, okay? But don’t ask me to forgive. I can’t fucking believe that filth sat on a sofa with us and I didn’t – I didn’t see-“

Stiles’ eyelids snap up in an instant.

“Dad,” and it’s almost reprimanding because they’ve been over this about ten times now within the past hour, “Dad, you couldn’t have known. You couldn’t _fucking_ have known, okay? Just – believe me. He was too cunning, too evil, too –”

“Stiles-”

“No, listen to me. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not Derek’s fault. It’s not even _their_ fault, they are creatures striving for power.”

“So then, whose fault is it?” the sheriff says and Stiles’ eyes flutter closed once again and when he speaks, it’s so faint that his words might be mistaken for a long, deep breath.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not about guilt.”

 

 

 

 

\---

 

Ten years almost to the day after the Hale fire, the town gossip is, once again, centering on the youngest surviving member of the family – except for the girl, Cora or whatever her name is, of course, but no one knew about the girl then. So this week, the people of Beacon Hills – at least the ones old enough to remember the fire – have been debating about whether or not Derek Hale killed the Sheriff’s son.

He had been seen getting into a squad car in front of the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital and young Jace Johnston is very adamant about the fact that Derek had been handcuffed and had had this ‘wild look on his face like he killed someone.’

Now that, everyone is ready to believe.

Young Derek Hale had been a different story – with so sweet a face that many of the mums at school couldn’t help but pat his cheek whenever they came to pick up their kids and Derek had always smiled and said ‘Good day, Ma’am’ so politely, and in those days he’d been around a lot, the Hales had been a respectable family in Beacon Hills.

So when young Derek Hale, barely sixteen, sweet face and even sweeter nature, had been seen at the police station that fateful day, face blank and eyes glazed and unseeing, the town’s heart had collectively broken for the poor, orphaned boy and Bethany Wilson had told everyone who wanted to hear it (and a few people who didn’t) that it would have been a mercy for the boy to die in the flames as well because, if you think about it rationally, what would a kid want here, alone and afraid without his family? What would his purpose in life even be?

No, a kid needs his parents, someone to keep him on the right track, to say hello to when he gets home and there had been this rumor – a silly but persistent rumor – that it had been some kind of divine punishment for Derek to stay behind.

Because, no matter how down to earth and respectable, there had always been something peculiar about the Hales that people recognized but couldn’t put their finger to and when called out on it, everyone would have vehemently denied that it was only the envy they secretly felt because all the Hale kids seemed to be good looking and excelled at sports.

And no one was surprised to see Derek Hale grow into a handsome but gloomy man who lived with his sister Laura up in the burnt shell of a family house, an eremite, one of these people you seldom ever meet and when you do you wish you hadn’t. Then he disappeared and people said he either killed himself or got sucked into the criminal world that he, from outward appearances at least, seemed to belong to already anyway. Nothing sweet about that face anymore, nothing innocent.

And then he was taken in for the murder of his poor sister years later. Nothing surprising here either, everyone knows that murderers can’t help but return to the scene of their crime. That they feel this irrepressible urge to confess.

What was peculiar, however, was how he managed to escape – it was an open secret that a few days upon being apprehended, Derek had just vanished out of the prison cell, like he had simply melted into the floor.

Ha, a few people joked he might have made a deal with the devil for that sole purpose because soon after he was cleared of all charges and everyone felt that couldn’t be right. No, surely, just look at that immobile, unsmiling face – and you’d see it around more often after that, at the gas station or grocery store even though Derek clearly still avoided people and came out mostly at night. Much like a bat.

And now this.

Derek Hale had reportedly shown up at the town hospital a couple of days ago, looking all bloodied and disheveled and, quite frankly, just _savage_ and in his arms the immobile body of Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff’s very own son, wrapped in a blanket and looking like death.

Peculiar, peculiar indeed.

And shocking. To think that there are people who _still_ believe him innocent, even after this. Okay, you might argue that a murderer would rather bury his victim in the forest where no one could find it – the way Derek Hale had presumably interred his own sister, just think about it. Awful.

Terrifying.

But Derek dropped the boy in the hospital and only left a few hours later in the deputy’s car – handcuffed and shoved right into a cell where he most certainly belongs, yes.

So now people say that young Stilinski is either dead or dying because the sheriff had been seen distraught und with red-rimmed eyes, a horrible sight because he is supposed to be the town’s strength and vigilant eye.

And today, Derek Hale walked out – once again – cleared of all charges and a free man, and this isn’t a rumor either, several people saw it.

Although the man is clearly a danger to the public, it’s ridiculous.

With his deep-set eyes and the dense beard he had grown during his brief stay in the cell. No one knows as of now what it is that he’d been taken in for – but it’s only a matter of time, really.

People cannot linger on that for too long, however, because another piece of shocking news hit the town today, or least those families who still have kids in Beacon Hills High. It is said that Theodore Raeken who had just moved back here with his family about a year ago – Theo who had reminded many of the older people of Derek Hale at this age, so sweet and polite and an excellent athlete – that Theo has been reported missing. Apparently he hasn’t shown up in school all week without notifying his teachers who had first tried to reach his parents and then, on the third day, sent someone to drive over to the house and knock on the door. One of the reasons for the teachers’ worry was that, okay, this is the most ridiculous of all the rumors, but, you know, people like clinging to silly ideas – it is said that there was reason to worry about him because Theo had been romantically involved somehow with the sheriff’s son – the very one who is dying in a hospital bed right at this very moment.

And that Theo might have gone wild at the news of his sweetheart’s death – or, worse, that he might have had something to do with it, but – yes, these are wild rumors indeed and, quite frankly, only the teenage girls at Beacon Hills High really believe it, with their way too lively imagination and unhealthy obsession with star-crossed lovers.

The much more logical explanation is that these two things have nothing to do with each other whatsoever. Theo might show up after two weeks, getting home from college interviews or something, and find that his parents forgot to notify the school but have instead gone on a camping trip because, in all honesty, the Raekens have never really been up to it anyway. Juliet with her hair sort of undone and never wearing any make-up, not even when she was in high school, and Thomas, always a little disorganized, friendly, yes, but also sort of strange, and what was it that he’s doing for a living again? Something about insects.

It is really hard to believe that two such people had managed to bring up a kid like Theo – he isn’t their own, of course, just adopted and, ask anyone, it _shows_ , you know, that Theo isn’t really a Raeken. But still. It’s sort of unfair, isn’t it? To be blessed with a kid like him when you did nothing, really, to deserve it.

Then of course, this afternoon, they were both found chopped up in the basement of their own home. The reason the police had even gone in was because when they’d rounded the house, the back door had been found wide open – and, apparently, it had been like this for some time, too, because there had been leaves and dirt everywhere in the kitchen. So they’d gone in, done a quick tour of the house, just to be sure, and that’s when they found them, dumped into a plastic tub in the basement, next to Thomas’ vast collections of insects.

What a shocking discovery – and needless to say, now everyone is making the connection to the Hale fire even though, unlike the Hales, Thomas and Juliet Raeken had probably not been innocent in all of this. The people they had always associated themselves with and God knows what they had gotten themselves into in those five years they had been living out of town – just saying.

This is a lot to talk over for one single day, so many things to keep track of and if that weren’t enough, in the evening the town talk returns once more to Derek Hale because, just think of it – he had been seen walking into the hospital in fresh clothes and shaved but still looking out of it. Several visitors had seen it and old Mrs. Bennet who lives right adjacent vows that she saw his car, and that car is really hard to overlook or mistake for someone else’s.

So it must be true.

And whatever Derek could even want there.

The next day many people would conclude that he probably came back to finish what he started, but others would reason that you wouldn’t just walk in the front door if that’s what you’re up to.

But then, with Derek Hale, there’s no real telling what he might and might not do. He doesn’t think like we would, you know, rational and planning ahead.

The guy’s a madman.

 

 

 

“Dad, you don’t have to stay here,” Stiles mutters. He’s lying in bed, the way he has been for the past days and painfully aware of how pale and disheveled and unshaven he looks. And that’s not his only reason for distress.

He has been talking with Nurse Abboud who is wonderful, yes, but Stiles still refuses to go into details of what happened and he still claims that he doesn’t know the guy who did it, or why he did it, and the Nurse has explained to his father in a private conversation about Stiles’ condition that Stiles is severely traumatized and that she strongly advise that he be taken out of school and out of his present life for at least six months.

That he needs to learn how to deal with his trauma and his post-traumatic stress and that a closed clinic would be the best, indeed, the only, reasonable choice for this. She would not recommend Eichen House, however, but an institution a little more removed and specialized on victims of sexual assault and young adult trauma. She brought brochures of two eligible places, if he would just have a look at them, please.

But Stiles, he refuses to go. He will not be taken away from his friends and his family and he is dead-set on going back to school as soon as possible and graduating with the others in six weeks.

Even more than that – he insists on seeing the person who found him, Derek Hale. After much resistance from his dad, and initial objection from the counselor, Derek Hale is indeed ordered into the hospital and he is expected around 8 p.m., a time that was deliberately chosen because most visitors will have gone home by then and the doctors and nurses, especially Melissa McCall who scheduled the visit, are very aware of the town gossip and protecting Stiles, shielding him for as long as they still can, is their utmost priority.

Stiles has already had dinner and the sheriff is presently pacing the room even though he has been told more than once that he is not to agitate his son in any way. But it seems like he can’t help it just like Stiles can’t help repeatedly tugging at the sleeves and shoulders of his ugly hospital gown that makes him vastly uncomfortable, even more than he would have already been anyway.

“Dad, could you please stop, you’re making me nervous.”

The sheriff stops and turns to face his son. He runs his hand through his hair, sighs – and then takes a seat in a chair over by the table.

“Sorry, son. I’m just having a hard time convincing myself not to shoot him on sight.”

And he puts his right hand down and lets it rest on his service weapon for a moment. Then drops it, like he is really tempted to draw it out of the holster on his belt.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

This again.

“Dad, how many times have I told you that Derek is a victim here, just like me?” and then, in a low voice, “he probably needs counseling more than I do, honestly...”

“Okay, and I’m trying to accept it, but – you need to be a little patient with me, son. I’m sorry I have to ask this of you, but if you want to go to local counseling and graduate with Scott and the others, there will be a few rules-”

“Sure. Lock me in,” Stiles mutters gloomily.

 “-for your protection, Stiles,” the sheriff says and he sounds upset.

“Only ever for your protection! After everything, I just can’t – you have to understand. I can’t leave you alone, _especially_ not with _him_. He might still be under some kind of – of supernatural influence.”

At this, Stiles can hardly suppress a smirk, no matter how miserable he’s feeling right now. There is some truth to his dad’s words. Being supernatural in Beacon Hills is not unlike being on some really heavy stuff sometimes.

“But he isn’t,” he says aloud. “The- _Lucifer_ and Faniel are gone. Any kind of – of pact is dissolved and Derek is not controlled by – by anyone or anything, okay?”

And he’s certain of this, Stiles.

His father sighs.

“Okay. But that’s not the only reason I will stay put.”

Stiles blinks. He looks across the room to where his dad is sitting who is staring gloomily back at him, his mouth a grim line.

Then, when recognition hits him, Stiles buries his face in his hands, growling, “Dad, oh, my God...”

“I don’t know what your feelings presently are for this man and I’m not going to ask-”

“ _Dad!_ ”

“-but there will be no – no dating or anything, not until you’re better and I can be sure you’re not suffering from some kind of Stockholm syndrome, no matter whether you still like this dude or not. Unless,” and the sheriff narrows his eyes, watching his son intently as the says this, “unless this was all bullshit, too.”

“It wasn’t bullshit,” Stiles mumbles, his cheeks very red.

His father nods, once.

“Okay, then. I believe you. But you’re not going to be alone with the guy, not for any time soon, and you’re free to do anything you feel comfortable with doing in my presence. Not to punish you, son, I want to make this very clear,” and his voice softens, “For your protection. Okay?”

Stiles nods curtly.

He had already been told he wouldn’t be able to have sex, especially not anal sex, for a long time. If ever again.

Something about his colon being lightly torn in several places and it needs to heal completely because, should it rupture, he would just bleed out. There would be nothing anyone could do about it.

And Stiles does not even want to go into the complications he’s presently having as a result of this, not just the pain. It’s mortifying.

He swallows, struggling to push the memories far, far away from him.

Not now.

He can’t be thinking of it all now, not when Derek – and then there’s a knock on the door.

 

 

 

When Derek is led into the room by Melissa McCall who gives Stiles an encouraging nod, then closes the door to leave the three of them alone, Stiles thinks his heart might stop for a moment.

Just looking at Derek who is staring back at him – he is feeling so much.

Really troubling stuff, too, and he has no fucking clue how to sort it out.

Derek looks like he’s been taken to the scaffold and is now awaiting execution, the way he stands there, stiff and pale, almost gaunt, like he hasn’t eaten anything in days, and a pained expression on his face. Eyes wide, too, like he’s scared or shocked.

Stiles can see Derek’s eyes dart all over his body, as if to make sure no parts are missing.

Then, reluctantly, he lifts his eyes up to Stiles’ face and there they linger, like he’s mesmerized, like Stiles’ gaze is, somehow, depriving him of his power to speak.

The sheriff, of course, doesn’t say anything either, he just sits there, his eyes never straying from Derek’s shape, arms crossed over his chest, as if there were really a slight possibility that he might otherwise draw his weapon on Derek.

So Stiles has no other choice than to open the conversation himself, even though there’s probably a thousand things he’d rather be doing right now.

Plus, he doesn’t really know what to say. Quite frankly, he wanted to make sure that Derek was alive and well with his own eyes, but he hadn’t really thought beyond that. He is still struggling with the pictures in his head, and with the guilt and misery and depression and has not brain space left for rationalizing of any sort.

So he clears his throat and says, “Ahm... Derek.”

Derek doesn’t even nod, but now his eyes flick over to the window, just once and quickly, almost as if he were about to throw himself out there and just flee the scene.

And Stiles wouldn’t blame him either.

But there is something he meant to say to Derek, yes, and since hell will sooner freeze over than the sheriff give in and leave the room, now is as good a time as any.

So Stiles clears his throat again and prays that his voice will stay steady and that he won’t break down sobbing or anything. He can never know these days, it’s maddening.

“I just – I asked you to come here because I wanted to tell you – that it’s not your fault, and – thank you. For trying to save me.”

Stiles has averted his eyes to the window, so he can’t see the bewildered expression on Derek’s face.

At least, he’s finally inclined to speak because he says, “Stiles, how can you say that?”

And he takes one step towards the bed – just one, then stops, as if thinking that he might not be allowed to approach Stiles. That he forfeited the right to be near him or, worse, that he couldn’t be _trusted_ around him.

“I shouldn’t,” he starts, but then doesn’t finish.

“I should have-”

Like he’s overwhelmed or something and when Stiles finally manages to turn his head, forces himself to look at him, Derek’s eyes are suspiciously moist and he keeps rubbing his right temple and Stiles has to admit, he does look like a madman.

It’s painful, to see him like that and to know that Stiles is, all things considered, the reason.

“It’s okay, Derek,” he says, his own voice raspy. “Alright? Please, just – you did what you could and you – hell, you were willing to sacrifice your life for me, I mean, come on, that letter? It scared the shit out of me, man, honestly.”

“Stiles, I’m so, so sorry, I can’t even tell you how-”

“Stop it, okay? I don’t even wanna hear about it. There’s nothing – nothing to be sorry for, and that’s that,” and then, because Derek’s mouth is still moving and Stiles is pretty sure he won’t stop, he quickly says, “How’s – Malia.”

Derek’s mouth snaps shut and he doesn’t answer for a while.

Just when Stiles thinks he won’t at all, he goes, “She’s – okay, I think. At least – she’s healing. They buried her – her dad, yesterday.”

“What?!”

Stiles stares at him and this time, it’s Derek who has his gaze averted.

“Yeah, they found him in the attic, looking the same way as – as that woman. Er... it’s clear that – _she_ did this. _She_ used him,” and Derek is talking with more vigor, all of a sudden, and with bitterness, “this witch, she did all of this. Guardian angel, my ass. She was as evil as Theo.”

And then, suddenly, Derek looks up to Stiles, shocked.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said – I didn’t mean to remind you-”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says with a dismissive gesture. “Really, I can say Theo’s name. I always could. Theo – see? There. I don’t have a problem talking about him.”

But his voice grows a little faint toward the end of the sentence and he knows his heart is beating so fast. But then it has been since even before Derek has entered the room.

“Okay, but Malia is dealing with it you say?”

Derek nods.

“Better than I thought she would, er... she’s angry, really angry and – sad. And fucking worried about you, Stiles, God, we all are,” and at this his hand goes up to his face again and he’s rubbing his eyes like he only realizes now how tired he is. “But I don’t think she’ll do anything reckless. No, she has the pack, you know? She’s not alone.”

“And she has you,” Stiles reminds him and Derek shrugs.

“You – stick around, right? You’ll be here? You – won’t do anything reckless either, right?”

No answer.

“Derek? Derek, promise me.”

Derek finally lifts his eyes and looks at Stiles for a long time until he says, slowly, “Yes... yes. I promise.”

“Okay, good.” Stiles lets himself fall back on the bed. The conversation combined with the chaos of feelings inside of him, are tiring him out. “Good. Don’t ever do that again, okay? I mean, like – doing something as stupid as sacrificing yourself for me.”

“I won’t,” Derek says and it sounds bitter again. “I thought – I believed him – her. The whole guardian angel crap. I believed it.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles quickly says again. “I believed it too and – and I think it wasn’t really a lie, we’re just – we’re too human to understand, probably.”

It’s the conclusion Stiles has come to in these hours when he’d been alone and awake and had dwelled on what he could have done differently and what it all meant.

Heaven, hell?

Theo had been right, at least it’s what Stiles is thinking now.

These are just concepts, ill-fitting to reality that is so much bigger, so much larger, wider, whole universes folded into every second of existence.

Theo had really told him the truth.

Phaniel hadn’t been the good guy, just like Theo hadn’t been the bad guy. But neither had Theo been good in any way. The words are simply too narrow to even _begin_ to capture these two.

Ancient creatures with hearts and minds so deep any humans would lose themselves in them and Stiles, he had gotten caught in a struggle for power beyond his understanding. Deep and uncertain like the abyss Theo had dragged the angel into, and then they had vanished.

Theo.

Stiles swallows.

There’s a whole world of feelings relating to Theo that he’s successfully managing to keep locked up so far, fear, panic, guilt.

Regret.

He’s not going to touch on it now.

So he holds Derek’s gaze and tells him, with a steady and determined voice, “Come back, okay? If – if you don’t mind. I would – like it if you came back tomorrow.”

“I – don’t know...” Derek says, his voice trailing off. He shifts uncomfortably and Stiles knows he wants to turn and look at the sheriff who hasn’t moved since Derek entered the room and who’s staring at Derek so hard that Derek can probably feel it burning a hole into his back.

“You can’t leave,” Stiles says, “At least not as long as we’re still here, not as long as we haven’t graduated.”

Silence.

Then Derek says, “Okay.”

“Promise again?”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods, relieved. Good. Derek wouldn’t break his word.

“So, you, er.... you need to rest, I – I should...”

“You can come closer to say goodbye, you do realize that, right? There’s no, like – spring guns installed around the bed, at least not that I know of and my dad has promised to not shoot you. Also, I don’t bite,” Stiles says and, surprisingly, the hint of a smile appears on Derek’s face, only to be swallowed back up again by a look of insecurity, even fear, almost, when he reluctantly approaches the bed.

Turns around to the sheriff finally, now, who nods.

Up close, Derek looks even more forlorn and the sight is so painful to Stiles.

Derek hesitates.

Then he bends down, stiffly, but before he can screw his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, Stiles has fisted his hands into Derek’s dark blue t-shirt.

Following a crazy impulse, he pulls Derek down to him and, craning his neck to reach up to his face, presses his lips onto Derek’s.

For a moment nothing happens. Then Derek moves his lips against Stiles’ and puts his arms on his shoulders, not rigidly anymore but carefully.

Then after what couldn’t have been more than five seconds, Derek pulls back, eyes wide with shock and he goes, “Sorry, sorry, oh, my God, sorry...”

Stiles rolls his eyes and let himself flop back onto the mattress.

“Just shut up, old sourwolf. I kissed you, not the other way round...”

Derek’s hand goes up to his mouth and he’s still staring at Stiles.

The sheriff behind him has buried his face in his palm, but it’s not a gesture of desperation or grief, this time, it’s rather a _God, whatever went wrong with this kid_.

Yeah, read the room, Stiles.

Read the room.

But when Derek’s hand drops down again, there’s a smile there, on his lips, almost despite himself and it’s mirrored on Stiles’ face, the first genuine expression of happiness in days.

Maybe weeks.

But Stiles – he knows he’s still got a long way to go.

And it’s not just fitting back into life, going back to school, running with the pack again.

Not even coming to terms with what happened, healing, you know, all of that.

He’s going to go to therapy, he had to promise his dad, and he feels like it’s the right thing to do, too.

No, it’s going to be fine.

He’s going to be just fine.

If it weren’t – if it weren’t for –

Okay, so here’s the thing.

There’s this one moment that Stiles can’t get over, and it’s not the torture or the rape, the pain and agony and fear of death. Because these, yeah, are huge problems and he’s getting help and he knows it’s not his fault because that’s the first thing he’s had to learn, he’s not guilty in any way, even though he sure as hell feels like it.

No, none of that.

It’s the one moment – he doesn’t really know when it happened exactly – sometime while he was reading Derek’s letter and comprehension had dawned on him.

That moment of inexplicable fear, of horror.

So, that’s normal, right, and in hindsight, it makes even more sense.

He’d been scared to lose Derek who wasn’t – isn’t – just a friend but he’s the dude Stiles has always had feelings for. And then, reading this – you’d panic, yes, it’s what any sane person would do.

But mingled into that fear, sneaking into Stiles’ heart through the backdoor had been a different kind of fear, of horror – relating to _Theo_ , you know, yes, we can say his name, too.

It had something to do with _Theo_ because he’d been the one Derek had set out to annihilate.

The reason he had written the goddamn letter in the first place, and it’s both their deaths, not only Derek’s, but Theo’s, too, that Stiles had suddenly become aware of while reading.

And – okay, so that’s what he's not getting here.

No matter how long he thinks about it, how long he – and it’s present, oh so present, because, Theo isn't dead, no, Stiles unbound him from his pact and he has vanished. Probably forever. Yes, but that means he’s still around somewhere.

Has to be, somehow, right?

Only, now he’s less human again and, depending on how that fight went down, maybe cannot access earthly planes anymore, who knows. But he still got his human body and -

He’s unleashed, Lucifer.

Yes, but for a _moment_ , for this particular moment while reading Derek’s letter, Stiles had been convinced that they had been about to die, Derek and Theo.

And it’s that feeling that Stiles is dwelling on, trying to understand, to dissect it. Make sense of it and it deeply unsettles him.

What he’d felt – what he’d felt then, deep down in his heart, what had been making his vision blurry and panic rise in his throat.

It hadn’t just been the fear of losing Derek.

It had been the fear of losing them both.

 

 

_Is this it?_

_Is this – the beginning?_

_Yes._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t worry, I don’t do major character death; ugh actually really hate it (I’m basically STILL getting over Allison, okay?!), so Derek will be alive and well; okay, let me rephrase that; he’ll live
> 
> don't forget reading the epilogue :)
> 
> also - I have no idea how people would behave when watching a baseball game, obviously  
> and, lastly, sorry for probably getting hospital procedures all wrong - I did not do as much research as I should have (even though it's an important topic, too, the whole hospital politics of dealing with rape victims), so what I did was write it the way I felt I would want it to be, a safe space and people who care
> 
>  
> 
> ...... <3 thank you all for reading, you guys are the best <3 <3


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